A Texting Affair
by Cecilia Strife
Summary: I own nothing (unfortunately). Johnlock- this means MxM John/Sherlock! Don't like? Don't read! Sherlock and John are being thick-headed when it comes to each other. How long will it take for them to get it together and get together? Rated M for slight violence/gore and future lemon(s).
1. Chapter 1

_I'm bored. -SH_

Doctor John Watson sighed at his desk. He had only been at work for an hour before Sherlock texted him, setting a new record at how quickly he could get bored. John rolled his eyes before sending his reply.

_I can't entertain you ALL the time, Sherlock. -JW_

His response came mere seconds later.

_Don't roll your eyes at me, John. It's distracting. -SH_

"How does he bloody do that?" John exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air in slight irritation. Was he that predictable?

_It's what normal people do, sometimes. You should try it sometime. -JW_

_Dull. Normal is boring. -SH_

"Maybe it would keep you out of trouble." John frowned. He kept that comment to himself, knowing that his companion would have a rant waiting for him as soon as he said it.

_Speaking of normal, you should probably get some sleep. You haven't slept since you started that new experiment with the milk. -JW_

_I can't sleep now, don't be ridiculous. I'm in the middle of an important stage and I've just started my patches. There's no time for sleep. -SH_

"I swear, my eyes are going to roll into the back of my head and get stuck." The doctor, once again, rolled his eyes at the screen of his phone.

_You can't keep overdosing on nicotine patches! As your doctor, I will remind you how awful that is for your health. -JW_

_Ah, so that's what you keep harping about. I stop paying attention when your face starts twitching. -SH_

John felt his face twitch now. _You don't listen to me either way. -JW_

_Correct. -SH_

_And on that note, I'll take my mindless and irrelevant chatter and get back to work. You're clearly occupied. -JW_

John tossed his phone onto his desk with a huff and buzzed the reception desk to see if he had any patients to attend to. He received another text when Ms. Wellington hobbled in on her cane and sat down in the designated chair. She seemed to be doing much better after she'd broken her ankle six weeks ago and soon he forgot all about Sherlock's unread text. Twenty minutes later, Ms. Wellington left and John finally picked up his phone to read the glowing letters as he buzzed reception again.

_I'm glad you noticed. I'm rather distracted. I've been thinking about the offer Mycroft gave you when he abducted you the first time. Do you think it's still an open offer? -SH_

John seethed and rapidly tapped out his reply. His fingers, now used to texting his flatmate all the time, were almost a blur as he ranted to the detective.

_What? I don't know and I don't want your brother's dirty money! In fact, I don't want ANYTHING that Mycroft has to offer. He can take his government money and piss off. -JW_ He already had to deal with one Holmes brother, he didn't want to even think of the other. It would only irritate him further.

After a mother of two left, taking both of her screaming children left, did he look at his messages again.

_Hm, yes. Well, knowing him, he's probably spent that money on cake. Nevertheless, your reaction has interested me. Why such hostility? -SH_

_It's not hostility, it's irritation, and despite the fact that I'm not Mycroft's biggest fan I don't go out of my way to tease him. And just why is my reaction so interesting? -JW_

_I will do no such thing! It's his own fault for getting pudgy. You're reaction was curious due to the burst of agitation. Is there someone else you want money from? No. Not money. Companionship? Sexual relations? -SH_

John gaped at his phone and blushed heavily. "Absolutely ludicrous!" He snarled and went to buzz his intercom once more when he realized that he had no more patients that afternoon. He decided that he would return his missed calls, blood results, and other busy work he wouldn't want to do tomorrow morning.

After he'd calmed down enough to start his call-backs, he fired away another text.

_Sherlock! No deducing via text messaging! I don't care HOW bored you are, I am NOT an experiment! -JW_

_I have been analyzing and deducing you since you walked into the lab at Bart's. Surely, you've gotten over it by now. You do spout praises to my intellect like a fountain. Now, you've avoided the question, therefore it was that in which you wanted. What do you want, John? -SH_

John swallowed and thought for a minute. It was no surprise that he loved Sherlock. Had fallen in love with him. However, he wasn't ready to admit it to anyone else, **especially** Sherlock. The man's work was his life and nothing could come between that and that brilliant mind of his. No, John would continue to date as many women as he could find to try and help him forget about his feelings for his friend, Sherlock Holmes.

_Just because I admire your genius it doesn't mean that I want you to know every minute detail. Some things I want to keep private, you great prat. -JW_

Satisfied with his answer, he made another phone call, scheduling an appointment with Mr. Hainsworth to discuss options for his high blood pressure. Within that time frame, Sherlock's boredom seemed to have come to a halt and John was thankful for the time of peace. But it was short-lived as his phone chimed.

_Ah, you taking on such a defense on my deductions is rather conclusive. You said you "admire", when I only mentioned that you "praise" me. Therefore, you are attracted to me and want to sleep with me. -SH_

John spewed out his tea all over his desk and coughed up whatever he'd mistakenly inhaled into his lungs. Christ, Sherlock wasn't playing around, was he?

_I do NOT want to sleep with you, Sherlock Holmes! How many times do I have to say it? I'm. Not. Gay! -JW_

He was about to turn his phone off when his colleague texted, yet again.

_Telltale signs of denial. You just blatantly stated that you admire me. Why bother hiding it? You're being obvious. -SH_

_Just because I find you amazing, doesn't mean I want in your pants. -JW_

Your genius! I find your GENIUS amazing! -JW

I meant, not you. I find your genius amazing. Not that I'm saying you're not, 'cause you are. Just that...I'm going to shut up now... -JW

John knocked his head against his desk. Several times. Hard. Hard enough where he was pretty sure he was going to be red and bruised tomorrow morning. He almost didn't look at Sherlock's reply.

_There now, you see? Truth from your very mouth. I'm flattered that you find me and my intelligence amazing, but I will have to refuse you. -SH_

_What? Why?! Not that I'm interested. 'Cause I'm not. -JW_

_Like I previously stated the night you shot that awful cabbie, I'm married to my work. -SH_

John's stomach dropped. He cursed himself for letting him feel disappointed. Why did he think that would have changed over the years that he knew him? Sherlock Holmes was dedicated to his mind and how it works. Not even as his best mate would Sherlock bend on the subject of emotions. He hardly had or expressed any of them.

_Oh, right. yes, of course. Well then, that's that, as they say. -JW_

John began to pack up his his things to go home. The few patients that he'd seen had been more than enough for him. Between them and Sherlock, he was ready to head back to the flat for a hot cup of tea and a book before bed.

The cab ride seemed longer than it really was. He thought about going to the nearest Tesco to pick up a few more things but he dismissed the idea. He'd rather do it tomorrow when he didn't feel like death rolled over him. When he got to Baker Street, he quickly made his way up the stairs and into the flat before stopping in the kitchen to make himself a quick cuppa. He was hoping to avoid the consulting detective but his hopes were squashed when a mop of dark curls walked into the living room.

"What are you sulking about?"

John could have screamed and thrown his favorite mug at the git's head but he reigned in his temper. "I'm not sulking. I'm tired."

Watson felt eyes boring into his head and he sighed. "Really, Sherlock, you're overanalyzing. Drop it."

"You don't overanalyze the truth." Sherlock followed him upstairs after he finished his tea and left the cup in the sink to wash in the morning. He knew it would be more tedious to do then but John couldn't care less at the moment.

After crawling into bed with his clothes of the day still on, John glared at his flatmate. "I told you to drop it."

He was surprised when Sherlock jumped into his bed and sat against the headboard. "I'm neither leaving, nor am I going to 'drop it', as you said."

"Fine," John yawned, "stay here, then. I'm going to sleep." With that, Doctor John Watson rolled over and fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning John woke up with a satisfied stretch. He snuggled deeper into the sheets, reluctant to get out of bed when he brushed against a solid form. His first reaction was to jolt out of bed when he caught a flash of a black curly lock of hair. He turned over and smiled at the deep-sleep body of one Sherlock Holmes. It as refreshing to see his companion in such a state of sleep he didn't bother to wake him up. A bit of a lie in would do Sherlock some good. Carefully, to avoid waking his slumbering friend, John rolled out of bed and gave the sleeping man a fond look before heading downstairs to the kitchen to make tea and breakfast.

Sherlock startled awake at a small commotion heard from downstairs. He frowned as he realized he was laying in John's bed. He replayed the events of last night in his head carefully before shaking his curly mop in distaste. Normally he would have waited until John had fallen asleep before moving downstairs to lounge on the sofa. However, there was something comforting resting his weary body next to ex-army doctor. He found his eyes easily lowering and his mind creeping to a pace where he could ignore the musings in his brain. When he felt coherent enough, he made his way downstairs to see what John was up to.

John heard light footsteps coming down from his bedroom as he finished pouring two cups of tea, making them both how he and Sherlock liked them. He handed the detective his cup and heard him head off to his own room. It came as no surprised to John as Sherlock spent more time in close proximity with someone in one night then he did in a month. After finishing his tea and his breakfast, John bathed, changed, and headed to work.

It was a couple of hours later when John got his first text.

_We're out of milk. -SH_

The good doctor rolled his eyes at the message as a young teenager walked into his exam room, coughing and clearly congested. Bloody flu season.

_That's lovely. The Tesco's open until late today, go get some. -JW_

_It's near freezing outside. It isn't a sensible idea for me to go out. -SH_

John gaped at his phone at the audacity of his flatmate. Really, he shouldn't have thought any different when he came to Sherlock. One could always hope, though.

_So, you're going to me ME go out, after being exposed to all kinds of illnesses for hours, just to get milk... -JW_

_You're the one that insisted on getting that infectious job. You wanted to work. I never implied or insisted for you to find employment. -SH_

John wondered why his eyes didn't hurt with all of the eye-rolling he'd been doing lately. _I can't live at Baker Street on an army pension, Sherlock. We've discussed this. I NEED this job. Get the milk yourself. -JW_

Three appointments later he checked his phone again.

_You're upset about last night. -SH_

_I'm perfectly fine. -JW_ John swore he would crack him one, one of these days.

_When will you be leaving that infernal place you call a job? -SH_

He took a quick look at his schedule and the paperwork on his desk.

_Another hour. Mary gave me a half day, why? -JW_

_Good, Lestrade just called with a case. We have a murder to investigate. Now, you HAVE to pick up the milk. See you then. -SH_

John wanted to scream. Of course, he would have to pick up the milk. Sherlock was probably halfway out the door already. He texted his displeasure.

_Damnit, Sherlock! Fine! I'll meet you AFTER I put the milk away. -JW_

It came as no surprise that Sherlock didn't text him back. Why would he? He was probably too busy on his phone researching the details of the murder that Greg had most likely texted him. With a sigh, he went back to work.

An hour and a half later, John was pulling up to the crimes scene. He jumped out of the cab and made his way over to Sherlock and Lestrade. "Did I miss anything?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, we were just about to head in."

John nodded and followed the two taller men inside. He listened closely as Lestrade began to describe the crime scene.

"34-year-old female, no identification. Body was found early this morning by the landlord. It looks perfectly preserved but what we found interesting was that she was cut up into pieces."

Sherlock frowned. "Why have me come, then? Seems cut and dry."

"Just wait til you see the scene." Greg shook his head and opened the door to the crime scene.

If John wasn't used to the carnage of going on investigations with Sherlock he would have lost his lunch. Body parts littered the floor in no particular order. The facial expression on the, once beautiful, woman was grotesque and a little frightening. After showing them in, Greg turned his heel and walked out, commanding his team to clear the scene for a couple of minutes.

John looked to Sherlock, already looking over the body for every minute detail, and began to give him his own account. "Not exsanguination, there's no clotting around the wound. No signs of asphyxiation prior to death. Maybe sedation or poison?"

Sherlock hummed his assent. "Been here about a week. Worked with her hands, yet they're very clean and not stained. Medical field. Nurse. Probably a veterinary nurse going by the small piece of hair on her shirt. Curious as to why they left her clothes on. Not a rape crime, then."

"There's no blood on the floor either." John added, frowning. "She wasn't murdered here."

"Moved, indeed. Her shoes have gravel on the sole; red mud so she's from the countryside." Sherlock continued to go over the body.

John nodded. "Lestrade mentioned that all of her possessions weren't on the body. No I.D. and no family that we know of."

"Of course her personal effect would be taken. Her murderer or murderers knew her. Hence, the lack of struggle. The gravel on her shoes aren't natural and artificially made. There was wind when she was killed as there are traces of the aforementioned gravel in the open wounds." Sherlock took out his travel test kit and added a serum to the sample he added to the phial. "These chemicals are cheap yet of a decent quality. Probably from a local school that can be easily accessed at all times of day and night. Small town, then."

Before John could blink, Sherlock was out the door and on his way to find a cab. Dutifully, he followed the whirlwind closely, a few steps behind. "Where are we going?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, hailing a cab. "The countryside, obviously. Do keep up, John."

"Sherlock," John sighed with a frown, "I have work tomorrow. I can't possibly go to the countryside today. Do you have any idea of what time we'll be back? Late. Too late to get a functioning nights' sleep."

"Then I go alone." Sherlock hopped in the cab. It was about to drive off when John opened the door opposite of him. The doctor pulled out his mobile to make a quick phone call. He apologized profusely and made promises to take several other shifts to make up for calling out. Sherlock was smirking when he hung up.

"Don't be so proud of yourself, prat."

Sherlock feigned innocence. "I haven't said a word."

"You don't have to. You're radiating 'smug'." John scowled.

They arrived at the train station and quickly bought their tickets and boarded their train. Sherlock looked to him once they were seated. "I knew you would come once I said I'd be going alone. You're very predictable."

"You nearly get yourself killed when I'm not around. I'm surprised you survived this long." John scoffed.

Sherlock grunted. "I'm not dead."

"No, if anyone's going to kill you it's going to be. **After** you've cleaned up after your experiments. I **still** can't get whatever the hell it is off the kitchen ceiling."

"You think you can kill me, but you won;t. I'll see it coming before you can even try." Sherlock rebuttled smartly.

John sighed. "You're impossible."

"Yet here we sit."

Oh, he wanted to punch him. Instead, he took out his phone to text a quick message to Lestrade.

A few hours of silence later, John and Sherlock finally made their way off of the train and began to walk to a nearest driving service. After they hired a car, they both began driving along until they came across an abandoned school. It was a few minutes later they came upon an older house, lived in but lacked care. Sherlock stopped the car a ways off, turning off the headlights before jumping out and hurrying towards the crumbling building.

"Thought so." Sherlock said.

John frowned. "What?"

"The grounds match the gravel on on the victim's shoes. She was killed here." He said as they approached their destination.

It was then that they both fell silent, stealthily walking around the grounds. It was a bit difficult as there were no lights on anywhere. The only light they had was provided by the moon and it crept in and out of cloud cover. Sherlock signaled for them to split up and made his way to the front of the house to peek into the windows. John, however, headed to the back of the house, checking the ground as best as he could to find any evidence that would confirm that this was where the killers had "done the deed". That was when he spotted a dark spot of what could have been oil on the ground. He bent down and dipped his fingers in the gooey substance and brought it up to his nose. That was no oil.

He stood to call for Sherlock when he spotted a small shed towards the edge of the grounds.

"Sherlock!" He hissed as loudly as he could as to not alert anyone around of their whereabouts.

Sherlock peeked his head around the corner with a frown. "What?"

John pointed to the shed and then pointed to his dirtied hand before ushering him over. When Sherlock stopped at John's side, he took out his phone to use as a brief light. They discovered that the doctor's fingers were colored red. Blood red. John was glad that he stopped at their flat briefly to drop of the milk...and grab his gun. He pulled it out as they made their way over to the shed and inside. What they saw inside made John actually want to vomit.

There was blood everywhere. The walls, the floor, the ceiling. Entrails littered the concrete slab of the floor as well as the wood table where deep scratch marks were evident of use of a knife or sharp instrument to cut things apart. Sherlock immediately wandered around the grab samples and take photos on his mobile as a log for himself for future reference. Not that he needed it. It was nice to have a clear visual just in case.

"Two men," he mumbled, "once larger than the other. Both tall in height and large in build. Both grounds workers. The woman must have lived here and they were the hired help."

John stayed in his place at the door, keeping a close eye out. "Any idea of when they'll be back?"

"Soon. This hasn't been reported in the media, yet, and they'll be back to clean up the mess. No one's looking for them yet." Sherlock nodded and headed out, closing the door behind him.

John kept his gun in his hand. "Plan?"

"Stay out of sight. Keep a clear sight to see when they come back."

John nodded and made his way to a small brush to lay low and wait. Sherlock hiding in a similar place opposite. Then they waited.

It was hard to distinguish how long they waited. John estimated about two hours before he heard footsteps coming up the gravel. He took a deep breath and steadied his heart rate. It wouldn't do to have his adrenaline run rampant just yet. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock moving to get closer to the shed as the man entered. John immediately went to grab his attention. Sherlock froze and glared at him but softened his expression when he saw the second man arrive and head inside to meet his cohort. John nodded and they both made their way to stand outside to listen in.

The two men were arguing, their accents so heavy that John almost couldn't understand them. When it was clear that they would have the element of surprise, he looked to Sherlock with a nod and cocked his gun slowly and as quietly as possible. He peeked around the corner and quickly retracted.

"No weapons." He mouthed, letting Sherlock know they would have a decent chance, knowing the murderers didn't have anything at the ready to defend themselves. Sherlock nodded and tensed, ready to go. John took a deep breath before swiftly turning to look inside the shed and fired off two shots. The man on the left took a shot to the shoulder and the one on the right crippled with a shot to his leg. As the one made fell, John took a swing with the butt of his gun to the side of the other's head.

After that it was a blur for John. The man he shot in the leg had hobbled onto one foot and had socked him on the right side of his face, splitting his lip open. He fell to the floor and knocked his head against the ground, his Sig Sauer sliding to a halt feet away. It was after he'd been hit that Sherlock had rushed in and grappled the man to the ground before subduing him.

John gathered his bearings before standing, stumbling slightly, and dabbing his lip with the back of his hand. He scowled as he felt his lip beginning to swell but brushed it off as he'd taken out his phone and called Lestrade.

"All right, John?"

He nodded when he'd ended his call. "I'm fine. Just my lip."

Sherlock nodded.

It wasn't long before the local PD arrived and Lestrade shortly after. John had walked over to the DI and gave his and Sherlock's statement. Sherlock watched as they wrapped up their conversation before started another. The playful punch that John landed against Lestrade's shoulder with a smile made Sherlock scowl. They seemed awfully cozy. He'd had enough when the Inspector said something that made John blush heavily. Striding over, he nodded to Lestrade before grabbing John's jacket and hauling him away. John protested but waved goodbye to Greg as they got into a cab and headed home.

It was late when they got back to Baker Street. By then their adrenaline was beginning to wear off and John was starting to feel exhausted. He'd made two cups of tea and joined Sherlock on the couch to watch tellie to calm their nerves. Habitually, John started to lick his split lip, not bothering to ice it as the cold weather had done it's job of numbing it for him. Now, the irritation was becoming a nuisance and he'd subconsciously began to sooth it with his tongue.

"Stop that." Sherlock commanded with a frown.

John just glared at the screen.

"What?"

He huffed. "I don't do it on purpose. It's irritated and I don't feel like icing it."

Sherlock rolled is eyes and turned his attention back to the tellie. His eyes, however, followed John's movement as he reached into his phone and grinned. Sherlock scowled and turned his attention back, schooling his features into aloofness.

"What?" John asked from his left.

"Nothing." He replied, setting his cup down and standing.

John frowned. "Sherlock, you're acting strange."

"I'm fine, good night." Sherlock then retreated into his room and shut the door.

John decided that that wasn't good enough and followed him, opening the door without knocking. He really should have knocked as Sherlock was standing in the middle of his room, shirt halfway off. He stared for a moment before shaking his head and crossing his arms. "Stop doing that, Sherlock."

"Doing what? I'm doing nothing out of the ordinary."

"You have some nerve." He fumed. "You practically jump down my throat last night to deduce me and my actions. But as soon as I start to try and get into your head, you brush me of."

"You will never be able to get into my head, John. Simple." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"No, I won't even pretend that I could. But you could at least help me to understand. I don't have you **massive** intellect, but I'm not so stupid that I can't retain information well. I **did** get through med school and become an army doctor."

Sherlock's eyes took on a strange glint. "Never doubt your abilities as a doctor, John. Why so defensive? Because you cannot deduce like I can?"

"If I could, I wouldn't be demanding answers from you, now would I? 'You see, but you do not observe.' As you like to remind me." John sighed.

The dark mop nodded.

John continued. "I'm not like you. **No one** is like you."

Sherlock turned down his sheets after he'd changed out of his trousers and into his pajamas and listened to John's rant.

"You've been quiet since we left the countryside. You usually rave about how the case was either thrilling or dreadfully mundane. You've been giving me these...**looks** and I don't know why. What's wrong?"

"There is nothing wrong. I'm tired." Sherlock said petulantly.

John growled before throwing his hands in the air, frustrated. "I may not be as observant as you, Sherlock, but I definitely know when something's off. I've lived with you long enough to know that by now. But if you don't want to tell me, fine." He turned to the door and opened it. "Good night." He threw over his shoulder and proceeded to stomp upstairs.

Five minutes later, after John had changed into his jimjams, his phone chimed. He sat down on his bed and laid down before picking up his mobile and opened his text.

_Are you insulted that I do not voice my inner train of thought in this instance? -SH_

He sighed and texted back.

_I'm not insulted so much as I'm a tad hurt. We've been flatmates and friends for a while now and I just want to know when something's bothering you, is all. -JW_

_I see. -SH_

_That and...well, I'd rather not explain further so you'll just have to trust me when I say it matters to me. -JW_

Ah. -SH Sherlock sat for a moment, having an inner debate before he got up and walked upstairs and into John's room without knocking.

John almost smiled as Sherlock was nearly bouncing from one foot to the other, trying to hide his awkwardness. "This is a rare thing for me, as you know, but...I am sorry."

"I'm sorry too," the blond doctor nodded and pulled down the sheets and shifted over, "com here. You need some sleep."

"Don't be absurd." Despite his denial, Sherlock made his way over to the bed and sat against the headboard.

John thought for a moment. He wanted Sherlock to stay but he knew his flatmate wouldn't without a sound reason. Sherlock was too logical. Too practical. That was when he internally cheered.

"I want to try an experiment."

Sherlock's eyes and ears seemed to perk like a puppy's would. "Oh? What kind?"

"So glad that I piqued your interest. How about this: I'll tell you my results tomorrow morning based on the events I've cataloged in my mind. Is that fair?" John grinned.

Dark curls bounced as he nodded. "It's a start. By the way, you need a new mattress. This one has little to no lumbar support."

"My mattress is perfectly fine."

"But it's uncomfortable." John could have sworn it sounded like a whine. He felt Sherlock shift and turned to see that the detective had shifted to lay on his side, staring at him. "What will you be doing as a variable in this experiment?"

John snorted. "Then sleep on the floor. I don't need a variable for this experiment. I already have most of the data that I need. This is just to confirm my findings."

He almost laughed as Sherlock actually rolled over to look at the floor with a grimace. "I suppose this will suffice."

John smiled and yawned closing eyes. "Night, Sherlock."

Despite his will to stay awake, Sherlock felt his eyes drooping closed. "Good night, John,"

And then all was quiet.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock woke up the next morning with a small groan. His neck and his back ached and all because of John's uncomfortable mattress. He told the good doctor to get a new one. With a jaw-cracking yawn, the detective sat up and looked at the man sleeping next to him. If anyone else were to look at John, they would see him sleeping peacefully, but Sherlock knew better.

_A few more grey patches, complexion paler than normal. Stress lines and wrinkles more prominent from stress. Weight loss of, about, a stone since my return. Note: must order more take away for more calories. Slight morning erection, however, dream isn't erotic to remember upon waking. Conclusion: John needs to get laid._ Sherlock thought with a smirk. After his deduction, he meandered downstairs to start his morning routine.

When John headed downstairs after waking, he went right into the kitchen to make tea. "Morning, Sherlock."

He received a grunt for his efforts. "Morning, breakfast?

"You're cooking?"

"Don't be absurd. I was going to call for Mrs. Hudson."

John rolled his eyes and began pulling out cookware. When tea was ready he made Sherlock a cup, sipping his while he cooked. He poured himself another when everything was finished and he set down two plates. Sherlock looked up from the newspaper he was reading and quirked an eyebrow at the full plate in front of him. He noticed John's portion was smaller than his. He switched the plates while John's back was turned and made a show of eating.

"You cooked?"

"Yes," John sighed, "like I do every other day. We're two grown men, so I refuse to make Mrs. Hudson cook for us just because you're lazy."

Sherlock harrumphed and went back to his paper until John left. When the door to 221B noisily shut on his flatmate's way out, he through the news down onto the table and rushed to grab his coat and scarf before flying through the flat and out into London.

There were many things that Sherlock Holmes found tedious and filling out paperwork for the Yard. Much to New Scotland Yard's displeasure, Sherlock made his bad temper known by deducing half of Lestrade's department before he was finally thrown out. After he'd finished his paperwork, of course. It wasn't until later that he'd gotten a text from John.

_Have to work late. A couple emergency cases came in. -JW_

He frowned. What could possibly constitute as an emergency as a GP working out of a small clinic? With a sigh, Sherlock stomped off to the nearest market. If he was going to be bored, he might as well do the shopping so as not to destroy the flat. The last time he did that, both John and Mrs. Hudson had called Lestrade to have him arrested. **Him!** So what if he'd started to tear down the wall to see if there were any termites living in the foundation of the house? It was purely for research!

Wandering the isles, he picked up a few of his and John's favorites and had even picked up another container of milk. See? He could do the shopping? John would be pleased, maybe even shocked. Sherlock grinned wickedly at the thought. However, as he stood on line for the chip and pin machine, he thought about the past couple of days.

John had been acting...strange...and that wasn't like John at all. No, John was a good, old-fashioned, Englishman whom, despite living with a man like himself, liked to live a calm life. Well, while he wasn't chasing down thugs, of course. John Watson was not acting like John Watson. He was acting...peculiar. He shook his head. That was all right, he would surprise him later to the point where he would snap out of whatever ridiculous mood he was in.

After he arrived back at Baker Street, he put the shopping away and began cleaning. Packing up his latest experiments, packing up his old ones, clearing off the table, neatly cleaning his microscope, he was quite satisfied with himself. It was when he was finished cleaning and restocking the refrigerator that he heard John walk in. With a frown, he was shocked that it was dark outside. With a sigh, he closed the door to the ice box and tossed the dirty rag into the sink and was greeted to the sight of John gaping at the spotless flat.

"What did you do?"

Affronted, Sherlock stuck his nose in the air. "I don't know what you mean."

"You cleaned..." John walked into the kitchen, opened, and then shut the refrigerator door. "And you did the shopping."

"Problem?" He raised an eyebrow.

"You never clean and you never do the shopping. I'm a little suspicious. Are you dying?"

"What? No! I wanted to see your reaction."

John stopped. "You did this...to get a reaction out of me?"

"Yes," Sherlock nodded, "you've been acting quite strange lately. Different triggers, mostly random. So, I chose to do something out of the ordinary to see if your reactions match a similar trigger."

"I see. Well, thank you."

The detective nodded. "By the way, you promised to tell me your findings of last night's experiment. I would like to know them now."

Sherlock sat down and waited for John's explanation. With a sigh, glad to be off his feet as he sat down in front of his companion, John began to explain. "I find that you sleep better with a bed companion on a night that you don't have a case. Normally, you don't sleep for days on end and crash and sleep for almost an entire day, when you do. On days where you don't keep yourself up for a case or an experiment, you only sleep for a couple of hours before you're up again."

Dark curls nodded and motioned for John to continue. "The past two nights, the other night in particular, you'd gotten a decent night's sleep. You spent more time with someone, in close proximity no less, the past two nights than you do in an entire month. I'd always wondered if you were like most other people and sleep better with someone next to you. I just find it strange, as you're not a 'people person'."

"You aren't 'people', however."

John frowned. "I'm just like everybody else."

Sherlock shook his head. "Far from them, actually. You can keep up with me, most times, and pay attention when I speak. Not to mention you bloody live with me." He stood and walked to the window to look outside.

"I've...never really thought about it. This is normal for me."

He grabbed a book from the shelf before sitting back down. John then stood and headed for the door, pausing just outside. "Just so you know...my doors always open. Good night."

Sherlock heard John go through his nightly routine before he himself went into his room to change and think. Hours later, after he'd emerged his room and used the loo, on his way back to his room, he heard a sound coming from the bedroom upstairs. Scowling, still half-asleep, he crept up the stairs and paused outside the door. He heard John muttering on the other side of the door before he cried out in what seemed like pain.

"No...stay with me...you can'..."

Sherlock turned the knob and looked on in shock at the flailing form in the bed. John was thrashing around in his sleep, sheets tangling and catching in his limbs, and he swiped at an unseen force. Even with what little light filtered in the room, Sherlock could see the sweat pouring off of his friend in large droplets.

"Don' touch 'im! Lemme help 'im!"

Sherlock took a step inside and paused when he realized that not all of the moisture cascading down John's skin was sweat.

_He's weeping..._

He was debating on what he should do when John shot up from his bed, his eyes wide and unfocused. He dropped back down to his mattress, covering his eyes with his hand and began to sob. When Sherlock moved to leave, John froze and raised himself on his elbows to look at him. "Sherlock? I...I didn't hear you come in."

"Apologies...I should have knocked."

John wiped his eyes, hurriedly. "It's fine. I'm sorry if I disturbed you. I haven't had a nightmare in ages."

"I was concerned." Sherlock spoke so softly that John wasn't even sure if he'd heard him.

"I'm fine." John said, breathing shakily, trying to regain composure.

Sherlock nodded and turned to leave but John's voice stopped him. "Sherlock!"

He stopped and looked over his shoulder, noticing the blush that stained John's cheeks.

"Could you...just this once..." He stopped, too embarrassed to finish his thought. "At least 'til I fall asleep?"

Sherlock nodded and hurried into John's bed, a little too eagerly if he was honest with himself. However, looking at the relieved expression on John's face was more than enough justification for him. When he got comfortable, he felt the older man turn to look at him. "Thank you, Sherlock."

He needed. "You still need a new mattress."

John laughed quietly, happy at the change of subject. "Not in my salary." He yawned widely.

Sherlock, brought the sheets back up to cover them both this time and the two of them fell asleep.

The next morning the two woke up entangled in each other's limbs, accidentally elbowing or kicking the other. That morning was full of apologies and bruises but was otherwise spent quietly. However, before John left for work, Sherlock had to ask. "Did you have any more nightmares last night?"

John shook his head. "No, dreamless, actually. Not that you don't already know that. By the way, I'll be going out to the pub with Greg later, so I'll be back late."

"Oh?" Sherlock feigned disinterest, meanwhile his mind was running rampant.

John nodded and finished his tea, walking around the flat gathering his belongings. "His divorce just finalized last week so he's a bit glum. Not to mention he's been trying to go out for drinks for weeks now."

"Very well." Sherlock ground out but he was ignored in favor of receiving a text.

John read the words on his screen before visibly getting annoyed and texting a message back before shoving his phone in his pocket.

"Clearly, he has your full attention." Sherlock stood, not wanting to witness the obvious flirtations of one Gregory Lestrade to his flatmate.

John sighed and went to gather his jacket. "Yeah, being a gigantic twat. I'll see you later, Sherlock."

While John was at work, Sherlock found himself at the park for the afternoon. He didn't do it often, as he loathed interacting with "average" people; they tended to be boring. However, as much as he liked to experiment to expand his knowledge, he loved to keep his observation skills as sharp if he couldn't improve them the slightest bit. What better way to do that than go to a public park and "people watch" for a couple of hours. It wasn't his favorite pass-time, but he would step out in front of a moving bus before he let his deductive reasoning wane in any way. After observing at least one hundred people, Sherlock made his way back home.

It was dark except for the flickering of the telly in the living room. What was more obnoxious was the volume the television was blaring through it's speakers. There on the couch in front of it was one, very drunk, John Watson.

Before he did anything, he called and ordered from the Chinese take away that was open late and waited for the delivery boy. The owner was indebted to Sherlock for discovering that one of his last clerks was stealing money from him when he was away from the restaurant. He was so grateful, that whenever Sherlock or John called, their order was to be made and delivered as soon as possible. No charge. Sometimes, Sherlock really loved being himself.

After the food was delivered, Sherlock set everything down on the table, ready to be eaten before he called over to John. "I'm surprised you're back so early. What did he do to agitate you?"

"Nothin'." John slurred.

Sherlock sighed. "Come here and eat."

"No' 'ungry."

He frowned. Oh no, this was **not** happening. "You're drunk. Come here and eat something to soak up all of that alcohol before I **make**you."

"I'll do wha' I wan'!" John glared at him, swaying on the sofa.

"You moron!" Sherlock stormed over and grabbed John's arm. Apparently, that was a mistake.

Before he could blink, Sherlock was on the floor, the wind knocked out of him, with a drunk, ex-army captain, straddled above him. "You f'get, I us'd t'kill people!"

"And you're unstable." Sherlock used whatever momentum he had to roll them over.

He would have savored the triumph he felt at his victory if he had the time to do so. As soon as he went to finish pinning John, he was once again on his back. His arms and legs were then rendered useless as the man above him pinned them down. When he looked up, it was to see the sloppy, drunken grin on John's lips. "Soldier n'er leaves you."

"Why are you trying to dominate me, John?" If physical restraint wasn't going to work, psychological warfare was going to have to do it. "What are you trying to prove? That you're a man? That you can fend for yourself? That you're letting your sexual frustration out on me? What do you want, you bloody drunk?!"

John froze. His expression turned blank and he stumbled to his feet. He grabbed an open beer bottle and downed whatever was left in one go. He stumbled into the kitchen to grab another from the fix-pack he bought on the way home earlier. "Jus' provin' a point'. No' 'ungry an' you can' make me eat when I don' wanna."

"Fine, be a piece of shite! I'm going to bed." Sherlock turned his heel and stormed into his room and slammed the door shut.

Not caring, John stumbled around the flat, beer sloshing over the rim of the bottle when it got jostled a little too roughly. He knew he was going to hate the smell in the morning but at the moment he didn't care. He went to head to his room but as he put his foot on the first step, he tripped and dropped the bottle, cursing as it shattered on the floor. Unthinkingly, he dropped to the floor and began to pick up the pieces with his bare hands. He swore loudly as a shard slashed open his palm when he slipped on the wet floor. As he stood, the world spun and he watched with a disconnected fascination as his blood began to drip all over the floor. He giggled as he made a smiley face with the droplets. After he had his fun, he headed into the loo in search of the first aid kit.

Sherlock was debating on called Lestrade to see what he and John had discussed at the pub that had gotten him into such a mood, when he head glass shattering and several curses being muttered. Sighing, he got up and followed the stream of swearing and giggling down the hall and into the loo. He stopped and glared at the drunkard leaning against the tub. e huffed at the mess that was on the floor and the poor bandage wrapped around his friend's hand before he picked up the first aid kit and unwrapped the hideous bandage. John began mumbling at him as he began cleaning and dressing his wound.

"I envy you, y'know..."

He sighed. He probably didn't want to know. "Why?"

"You can ignore yer 'motions, y'know? I can'. Bloody well sucks..."

Sherlock glared, willing himself to try to be patient and gentle with John's hand. "Then speak up and talk about or act on them. Sober. Not attack me when you're drunk."

John sniffed. "You attack'd me firs'!"

"I was relocating you."

"Still grabb'd m' arm."

"I attempted to lift you up, John. What emotions are you trying to drown out?"

"St'pid Greg and his st'pid opinions."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Which were? Not that they really matter."

"That I fancy you. should f'get 'bout you, sleep wiff more women, and move on. He's righ', y'know." John looked at him, eyes unfocused.

"Right about what, John?"

"You an' me. No' 'appenin'. Sleepin' wiff more women to distrac' me, to help."

"And just why," Sherlock finished bandaging the sliced hand and helped him up to sit on the toilet, "wouldn't it work? You do realize that your taking advice from a man who's getting a **divorce**, right? I hardly think his opinion matters."

John shook his head. "Sentiment. No' e'en I coun' for somethin' like sentiment."

"And you're a drunk twink, so that hardly amounts to anything right now. Accept it and stop hiding behind dull women who you pretend to think are interesting." Sherlock then wrapped John's arm around his shoulder and wrapped his own around John's waist. He thought about taking his inebriated friend to his own bedroom but thought better of it. There was still a puddle of beer and bottle shards in front of the stairs and John was a bit heavier than he looked.

"Oh..." John then giggled. "Wha's a twink? Do I twinkle?"

Sherlock brought him into his room and sat him on the bed, taking his shoes off for him with a sigh.

John tilted his head. It would have been adorable if he wasn't so drunk. "So? Whazzit?"

"Lay down, John."

"Will you tell me if I do?"

"John..."

John tried, and failed, to imitate Sherlock's annoyed expression but broke down into a fit of giggles. "Sherlock."

Sherlock walked out of the room but walked back in shortly, aspirin and water in each hand, and held them out for John to take.

John crossed his arms. "Not 'til you tell me what twink means."

"It means gay. Fag. Tart. Homosexual. There. Satisfied?"

The shorter took the aspirin and water, downing them both, before laying down in bed. "What if I like bofe of th'm?"

"Then you like men and women. Nothing wrong with finding both genders attractive. I wouldn't think any less of you, if that's what you're worried about. Lestrade knows nothing, by the way, and neither do you. You've never indicated any interest towards me on the subject whatsoever. Therefore, there is no prove to indicate that 'nothing would happen'." Sherlock stood and walked out to sit in the living room.

John frowned and followed, as best as he could. He glared at Sherlock when he spotted him with a book. "The on'y person who e'er caugh' yer attention wuz thewoman."

"Go back to bed, John."

"No! Yer bein' cryptic! Hate it when you do tha'!"

"What does it matter? You're not going to remember this in the morning."

John almost pouted. "I'll remember jus' fine! You sayin' that if I kiss you when I'm sober, you wouldn' be oppos'd?"

"I wouldn't be opposed but it would be a completely different scenario. You wouldn't have to courage to do so."

The ex-captain's eyes hardened. "T'morrow."

Sherlock shrugged. "If you remember."

"I will." John's tone was adamant as he dismissed himself and wandered back into Sherlock's bedroom to toss himself onto the bed and falling asleep.

Sherlock sighed and curled up and opened his book to read. He muttered to himself. "Really should get new reading material."

It was a couple of hours later, Sherlock was emerging from his Mind Palace when he heard a noise coming from his bedroom. He sighed and stood, preparing himself to console a half-drunk, half-asleep John from a nightmare but he didn't prepare himself for what he saw in the middle of his bed. John Watson. With his hands down his pants. In his bed. Moaning. Dear god...he couldn't look away! One arm was above John's head, clutching a pillow close to his face as his sleep ridden face scrunched up in an expression of pleasure. The other hand was stroking himself furiously underneath his pants at what shouldn't have been a pace that a sleeping man could contain in such a state.

"Sherlock..._harder_..."

"Fuck!" Sherlock turned his heel and headed into the loo leaving the door open and, without undressing, stood underneath the cold spray. He soaked his entire being in the cold water and tried to regain control of his breathing. Christ that was erotic. Damn, he should**not** have gotten so turned on that easily. But...John...

"Fuck!" He cursed again and looked down to see that his erection hadn't waned at all. If anything, it had hardened further. "Bugger it all."

He reached down and tugged down the waistband of his pajamas and pants to stroke himself. He brought up the image of John from just moments ago. His cock twitched and he stifled a moan. Over the sound of the streaming water he could hear John getting closer and closer to his climax. He himself felt heat pooling in his belly. The sensations of his unlubricated hand and John's loud moaning were too much.

John's last cry of "Sherlock!" brought him over the edge and he spilled himself on the bottom of the tub. He watched as the evidence of his activities washed down the drain before he turned off the water and stepped out. He quickly undressed, leaving his soaked clothes on the floor of the tub before he went to get a change of clothes from his room. He looked at the figure snoring on his bed with a smirk. Tomorrow would be interesting.


	4. Chapter 4

_Are you at the flat? -SH_

John had just finished ushering a group of young kids into a cab when he'd gotten the message. One of them had, thoughtlessly, decided to try and jump a flight of stairs from his skateboard and had broken his ankle. He gave the cabbie some money and instructed him to take them to the nearest hospital. What the kids didn't know was that he asked him to take the long way. They'll think long and hard the next time they want to pull a dangerous stunt like that. Especially with the amount of pain the youth was in. He tick-tacked his reply as he headed back inside to see his next client.

_No, I'm at work. Several emergencies. -JW_

_I need to speak with you once you get back. -SH_

John's heart fluttered. He really didn't meant to get belligerent last night. John new he could be a raucous drunk but he never meant for it to get out of hand. That was when he remembered their conversation from the night before. He blushed tomato red.

_What about? -JW_ Maybe if he played ignorant, it would soften the blow.

_Us. -SH_

John stopped and sat down at his desk, heart thumping loudly in his chest, and buzzed for his next client.

_Oh? -JW_

Another severe head cold later, he looked at his phone to see two messages.

_Yes. -SH_

_I made us dinner. -SH_

John's eyes widened in disbelief. He was speechless.

_You made dinner...Should I be concerned? Is Baker Street still standing? -JW_

_Don't be silly, John. -SH_

John was still skeptical. He eyed his phone warily before replying.

_I have one more client to see and then I'll be home. -JW_

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock ran around the flat, busier than a bee. He flitted around the kitchen, checking on the food, arranging the table, and made sure that everything was spotless and in order. When his phone indicated a new message, he flew into the living room and jumped onto the couch, landing on his stomach to reach his mobile at the edge of the table. His fingers flew over the keys to type out his response before pressing send and going back to his preparations.

Everything had to be perfect. He wanted to show John that he cared about him in whatever way he could think possible. Sherlock Holmes wasn't a man of many words so he hoped his actions would be clear enough for even John to recognize. If tonight would go the way he thought it would, he would have nothing but perfection to come from his efforts. Yes, tonight would be the night that he and John finally stopped all of the foolishness of dancing around each other proverbially.

An hour later, he heard John climbing the stairs and double checked everything, including himself in the mirror. When he turned to look at John, hair tousled and eyes wild, he stopped. The doctor was clutching a napkin to his nose, small droplets of blood littering the white paper.

"Lo, Sherlock." He looked into the kitchen and inspected his hankie before tossing it in the bin. "Looks and smells great. Thank you."

"Was there an altercation at work?"

John shook his head. "No, I haven't been drinking enough water and it was extremely warm and dry at the clinic."

Sherlock nodded and watched as John took in the table setting in the kitchen. The table where Sherlock normally kept him experiments was covered with a light blue linen with plates and glasses sitting in their respective places.

"What's all this, then?"

Blue eyes narrowed. "I told you earlier, I prepared dinner."

"Well...yes but I didn't expect...this. Not that I don't appreciate the gesture, I do. Just...what's the occasion?"

Sherlock paused and cleared his throat. "Erm. It's just to show my gratitude."

"Gratitude?" John inquired. "For what?"

"Putting up with me, my experiments, belittling and undermining your intelligence." Sherlock fought the instinct to wring his hands.

John's lips twitched while he tried to restrain the smile that threatened his face. It was cute that Sherlock felt awkward in expressing himself. "Yes, it gets annoying and you're a bit of a prat, but I can't think of anywhere else I'd rather be than here with you at Baker Street."

Sherlock nodded, still hovering with insecurity but John came to his rescue. "So...dinner?"

The taller man seemed to jolt out of his stupor and hurried into the kitchen. "Ah, yes, of course."

When both John and Sherlock's plates were filled, John poked the chicken and rice that seemed to look ordinary enough. "Is it poisoned?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes in irritation. "Don't be a twat, John. Why would I poison you?"

"Experiment?"

"Ridiculous. If I wanted to experiment the effects of an anomaly on the average mind and body, I would have chosen a better chemical or chemical combination."

John sighed and lifted his fork before closing his mouth around it and chewed as he retracted. He sat in thought, looking at Sherlock who seemed to be waiting with bated breath for his opinion. When he swallowed, he smiled. "Tastes fantastic, Sherlock! Really good."

Sherlock released a breath in relief. Not that he really **needed** John's approval but did it ever feel good to hear his positive review. As they ate, they both went over their day until John finally placed his fork down and leaned back into his chair. "So...what did you want to talk about? You said it was about...'us'."

Sherlock nodded and folded his hands in his lap, thinking. John waited patiently for him to gather his thoughts and listened intently when he spoke.

"You did an experiment, noticing certain interactions aided in my well being, one way or another. It lead me to think...Do you remember what you said when you came home from the pub the other night?"

John's face burned lightly as he fought down his blush. "Vaguely, but I do remember almost all of our conversation. Is that all?"

"No. I was wondering if you still wanted to kiss me."

The doctor hesitated, not bothering to hide the red creeping into his face. He cleared his throat before nodding. "Yes."

"And now that you're sober, is there anything else you wish to express?"

"I..." John inhaled slowly, exhaling in the same fashion. "I may have...some feelings for you. However, I know that's really not your area."

"That was not my question, John. We've been through a great many ordeals, there's no reason for discomfort or hesitation. Not after what we've faced together."

John looked away and tugged at his shirt collar. Did it get warm in there suddenly? He was quite sure it did. Yes, that was it.

"John!"

He jumped at Sherlock's commanding tone and calmed his beating heart. "I...I'm in love with you, Sherlock. I know you know it's just a chemical imbalance in the brain but it won't deter me from how I feel. I know you don't...'do' feelings but I don't think I'll ever stop feeling this way."

Sherlock took a long look at him. _Heartbeat: rapid. Jugular artery: pulsing. Chest: almost heaving. Eyes: dilated. Sweating from all stress points. Left hand: shaking slightly. Right hand: subconsciously rubbing at old psychosomatic pain. Conclusion: John is anxious and fearful. Why?_

He then expressed his suspicions. "You're terrified that I'll deduce something negative." He stood to put their dirty plates in the sink. "I won't. I've been thinking about what you said, almost constantly."

"I'm more terrified that you'll toss me out on my ear." John said as he shook his head.

Sherlock turned back around to look him in the eye. "Never."

"What are you saying, Sherlock?"

"Why would I toss you out? I'd be a fool to evict the only other person who cares for me like you do."

John frowned. "Because me and my feelings would only be a distraction. What with me pining and sulking about it."

"It's perfectly natural for the average person to have feelings for another, John. It's purely instinctual to find a mate, so to speak."

"Except the fact," John rolled his eyes, "that I'm in love with my very **male** flatmate."

Sherlock sighed in frustration and sat down in front of John again. Why couldn't John understand?

"Our first shared meal together, at Angelo's, when I told you I was married to my work. I said that, months ago, because there was no one who wanted to be around me willingly. Lestrade is the only one at Scotland Yard that doesn't think of me as a freak. Mrs. Hudson has been more than kind to me, more than I deserve, and I care for her like the mother that I'd always wanted. Then...there is you...John."

John nodded and motioned for him to continue.

"You're here, over one year and eighteen months later, through hell and back I'd say. I trust you, John. Completely. With my life. You've certainly saved it before."

Feeling even more anxious, John stood and almost bounced on the balls of his feet. "That only tells me that you trust me."

"No," Sherlock stood as well, "it doesn't."

Both of them were getting visibly more and more agitated. John because he didn't understand what Sherlock was trying to say. Sherlock because he couldn't see why John just wasn't **getting it**.

"What are you trying to tell me? Deduce yourself for me."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Trust is an emotion, John. Loyalty, the need for attention or a reaction. Caring for your well-being... I couldn't care less about most things in life. Nothing is more important to me than the case, the puzzle. Nothing except you. John, I need you to see..."

John's expression through his explanation softened to a gentle smile. He took a couple steps to stand in front of the detective and wrapped his arms around his waist. He rested his forehead against the chest in front of him and shook his head. "I see. I observe. You don't have to say anymore, Sherlock."

He could feel Sherlock stiffen beneath him as his arms encircled his narrow waist. However, after a moment, Sherlock relaxed and reciprocated the embrace, even resting his chin on John's head. Soon, John stirred and looked up at his companion with a grin.

"I love you too...git."

Sherlock smirked and chuckled, giving him a squeeze and a poke to the ribs.

"I promised you a kiss, didn't I?" John glanced at Sherlock's lips before looking back into his steel-blue eyes.

"Indeed, you did mention something to that effect."

John hummed to himself and licked his lips. "I suppose I should make good on it, then. Wouldn't dare disappoint the world's only consulting detective."

Sherlock's smirk widened into an almost feral grin. "I suppose not. I heard he's easily bored."

"I heard he's a bit of a dick."

"Handsome though."

John's shoulders shook with mirth. "That depends on who you ask."

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Kiss me, already. Your handsome, dick of a consulting detective gets impatient."

"Well then," John raised himself on his toes slightly, "I won't disappoint him."

When Sherlock's lips met John's, he felt his stomach clench. He noted how his heart leaped considerably in his chest, comparing it's fluttering to the wings of a hummingbird. Instantly, his eyes closed, capturing the moment to analyze later for future reference. It was almost disconcerting how quickly his mind seemed to slow to a crawl, the sensation of John's lips moving against his being the only thing he could focus on. His own lips moved on their own accord, seeking more friction. If it wasn't for the fact that his lungs began to burn, he would have almost forgotten to breath. He pulled back and took a lung-full of air, eyes opening to look into John's. "Sorry...needed air..."

John smirked at him. "Breathing. I thought breathing was boring."

"Not like this. Not bored."

He nodded and kissed Sherlock's nose. "If I ask you something, will you answer me honestly?"

"I always answer with the utmost truth behind my words." Sherlock sniffed offended. "Isn't that part of the reason why most call me an arse?"

John grinned. "Point made." He leaned in fro another kiss, mentally dancing when Sherlock more than willingly returned it. "I wanted to ask you...are you really a virgin, Sherlock?"

John wasn't expecting Sherlock to suddenly pale and step away slightly. "Does it matter?"

He smiled and shook his head, stepping into his personal space again. "No, but it helps me figure out how slow to take this. I don't want to overwhelm you or scare you off."

Sherlock sighed and turned to the stove to make tea. He needed something to occupy his hands. He felt foolish. Of course John would want someone with more experience! Not someone like him who would fumble through the actions of having sex because of his lack of knowledge. Sure, he'd done plenty of research and self-exploration to see what all the hubbub was about. But he didn't have any experience being with anyone else in general. He heard John speaking to him softly, as if speaking to a wounded animal.

"Sherlock, it really doesn't matter to me. If I'm your first...I'm honored that you would give that to me willingly...that you trust me that much."

Sherlock felt his throat tighten and he tried to swallow. Failing, he cleared his throat. "You're my first...interaction. Ever."

He felt strong arms wrap around him again, John's head resting in the middle of his back just above his shoulder-blades. "I promise I won't do anything you're not comfortable with. You're not used to people touching you except in a platonic or harmful manner. I'm a patient man, Sherlock. I can wait until you're ready."

Sherlock nodded, pouring himself and John a cup of tea each, handing it to the shorter man before turning around. "So, you enjoyed dinner?"

"Quite good." John's smile was infectious and he tried not to smile himself. His smile turned sly and cheeky. "Going to make dinner every night from now on?"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you? I think not."

"Oh well, I tried. I'm actually a bit surprised. I was sure you and Irene Adler had made it to bed."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "She was a lesbian. She didn't take pleasure from servicing male clientele. Not like she did with women. Obvious."

"Maybe not, but she did want you. **That** much was obvious."

"And yet, she didn't. She's history, John. Why bring her up? To test me? To see how far my curiosity would lead me? To see if I played her game?"

John shook his head. "No, believe me I was just curious. To be honest, yes, I was a bit jealous. She took all of your attention and when she faked her death you seemed so broken up about it."

"Knew you were jealous." Sherlock smirked in satisfaction. "Her assigned text message alert made you uncomfortable."

"It made **everyone** uncomfortable, Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson beyond so."

Shrugging, Sherlock decided a subject change was in order. "Why did you wait so long? You didn't exactly hide it that well."

Hesitating, John replied. "It was more of the fact that I wasn't sure myself and how you'd react."

"Yes, well, most never know until it happens. What else? The publicity? They press had been spreading numerous rumors already. Daily from what I can recall. You insisted on seeing all of those **insufferable** women to prove a point."

He rolled his eyes. "I'm a very private person, Sherlock. The more they made assumptions, the more they made me into a spectacle."

"At least they never called you a freak."

John's eyes narrowed angrily. "Sally Donovan is a bitch, among other things. Don't ever believe whatever tripe those bastards at the Yard say about you. They don't understand you. They never even bothered to try."

"They're too stupid, anyway." John laughed as Sherlock's nose lifted, defiantly.

"Or too scared too." John yawned before setting his tea cup down and pressing a chaste kiss to Sherlock's lips. "I'm tired and Mary has me working another full day tomorrow. Will you be coming to bed with me or will you be occupied for the rest of the night?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Whatever it is can wait 'til morning."

John nodded and nudged Sherlock in the direction of his room. "Change and meet me upstairs."

"You don't have to pretend to be tired to get me into your bed, John."

"I'm plenty tired," John rolled his eyes, "Sherlock. I just so happen to **like** sleeping next to you."

Sherlock chuckled as he watched his doctor head upstairs in a huff. He entered his room, changed, and decided to leave his phone on his bedside table to charge. If it was that important, they could call John. With that he made his way upstairs and into bed with John.

Now, Sherlock Holmes wasn't one to panic, far from it. He was calm, cool, and collected during the most stressful of situations. It was when, a few days later at a crime scene, he'd gotten a text from a mobile number he didn't recognize. This, in and of itself, wasn't unusual as he'd posted his mobile up on his website for clients. No, it was the picture that was sent that had stopped his heart cold. When he opened the message, he froze where he stood, eye widening in horror.

It was the inside of 221B, nothing too horrible, a simple picture message of their kitchen. However, there was a red delicious apple sitting on the table, right next to his microscope. There were two words carved into the apple, exposing it's white pulp...

_Let's play_

Ignoring Lestrade's voice calling out to him, Sherlock quickly hailed a cab and fired off a text to John.

_He's back. -SH_

John was just leaving from picking up take away when he'd gotten Sherlock's text. He frowned and sent one back.

_What? Who? -JW_

John sighed and jogged up the stairs to their flat. He ignored his phone for a moment in favor of opening the door. Hovering in the doorway, he pulled out his phone and then proceeded to drop it.

It was the picture message from before.

The hairs on the back of John's neck stood on end, goosebumps littered his arm, and he could feel his heart pumping in his head. He wasn't alone...

He heard the swooping of an object and dove out of the way, rolling when whomever was attacking him, mercilessly swung over and over and over again. With there only being so much room in the flat, John stopped on his back, planted his feet, and kicked off of the floor, catching his assailant by surprise. The soles of his feet made contact solidly with his attacker, but at the expense of using most of his energy and muscle usage. He only had a few more tricks up his sleeve before he would be completely useless. Landing on his feet, John swung around and tackled the brick shithouse of a man and took him to the floor.

Somewhere to his left, John's phone range relentlessly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw "Sherlock" glowing on his screen, his ringtone blaring through the tiny speakers. He felt a pain in his side and the wind being knocked out of him as he was knocked onto his back, but he grappled his way into a sitting position, straddling the man beneath him. He landed a solid punch or two before he was kicked off. Once again, he was grappling with the stranger for dominance and for his life until he finally took a hold of his head and-

SNAP!

The body above him crumpled instantly, John squirming and struggling until he crawled over to his phone and hit the "answer" key to stop the incessant ringing. He panted heavily, bringing his tired arm to press the phone against his ear. "Sher...lock..."

"Who broke in?"

John rolled his eyes and tried to calm himself down. His adrenaline making his heart and blood race a mile a minute. "Not...Mori...arty...Military training."

Gasping for breath, he was relieved to hear pounding feet running up the stairs and the door almost fling off of it's hinges. Sherlock gave him a once over before crouching next to the man on the floor. "He's dead, John. Clean snap of the neck. Impressive."

John nodded, sitting quietly. The pain in his side wasn't leaving. Why was it getting even harder to breath?

Sherlock sniffed the corpse then made a sound. "Poisoned before he even arrived. Probably a loose end that needed to be taken care of. Oh well, he wasn't going to talk anyway."

The detective started pacing, calling and speaking to Lestrade before hanging up. He looked over the body again before looking at John and stopping. "John?"

John sat, clutching his side, an expression of pain pinching his features. His breathing had become more sever and his eyes were beginning to close. "Sherlock..."

"John? John! What is it?" Sherlock hurried over and fell to his knees, ignoring the pain as they connected to the wood floor.

It was then that John raised his hand for himself and Sherlock to see.

It was covered in red. Crimson red. Blood red.

Before Sherlock could shout in horror, John's eyes closed shut, and he knew no more.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock was beside himself with worry. And really? Sherlock Holmes is **never** worried. However, when it came to sitting on an uncomfortable chair at Saint Bartholomew's hospital, watching his best friend and love, sleeping on a just as uncomfortable bed, he was downright anxious. He hated hospitals to begin with unless it was for his use of it's morgue and laboratory. Any other time he tried to avoid it like the plague. Especially, this facility. If it wasn't for John's need of medical assistance he would be at St. Bart's. No, not when he took a giant leap from it's rooftop. It took everything he had to resist the urge to vomit as he walked passed the very pavement in which his fake death had occurred. He shook his head. No need to think about that right now.

Steel-blue eyes trained on his companion just a few feet away from him. Two days ago there was so much blood coming from just his side. His assailant was only millimeters away from nicking one of his lungs and the damage would have been done. Who knows what kind of repercussions that could have made to his soldier. Thankfully, the surgeons were able to repair most of the wound and stopped the internal bleeding. Not that he'd ever admit to it, but Sherlock was almost frightened. He knew John was strong and could survive anything that the world threw at him. But Sherlock? He wouldn't survive without his dear blogger living in the same world that he did. He didn't want to. It was bad enough that he thought John wasn't going to make it.

_"Lestrade! Lestrade, get a paramedic up here! NOW!" Sherlock ripped off his scarf and pressed it against John's wound to try to stop the bleeding._

Footsteps thundered up the stairs as the Detective Inspector and two medics ran upstairs and into the flat. The paramedics immediately went to work to stabilize the unconscious man on the floor as Sherlock stood, breathing heavily in his panic. Lestrade pulled him aside, demanding an explanation of what happened.

"All right, Sherlock, from the top." The DI took out his pen and notebook to take notes.

Sherlock bounced on the balls of his feet, glancing to see John leaving the flat on a stretcher before replying. "I received a picture message from Moriarty of the flat, 'Let's play' carved into an apple that was left on the table. I immediately informed John and when I didn't hear confirmation from him, I called him on his mobile. It took about ten to fifteen minutes to arrive here and by then John was on the floor, his attacker already dead of a broken neck. I inspected the body before I was made aware of John's injury."

Lestrade nodded, quickly scribbling away on his notepad. "Details?"

"Not much. 'Gun for hire'. Russian by birth, probably here on a visa. Paid assassin hired by James Moriarty to take out John." Sherlock rambled off effortlessly.

The DI finished writing down his data for his report later before tucking his pen and paper away. He called for his team to come into the flat to begin setting up their crime scene. After they were in the motions of setting up, Lestrade turned to Sherlock and discretely rested his hand on his arm. "I'll take it from here."

Sherlock nodded and rushed out the door to hail a cab.

The detective scrubbed his head in frustration with a sigh. He sat back and breathed deeply and closed his eyes, receding into his Mind Palace until John was ready to wake up.

Said doctor-turned-patient, slowly began his wake to the land of the living. His eyes felt heavy and his head felt like it was made of lead. The pain in his side was even worse. Lifting his head was a chore but he did it to look across the room to see his love in a deep trance. Smiling, he took a deep breath and looked around at his monitors and IV bags. One was a saline drip and another was a plasma drip. The latter made him frown so he sat up and winced as he felt a pull on his side but he ignored it in favor of reaching towards the end of his bed and grabbing his chart. His eyes scanned through his chart, his lids narrowing from time to time. No wonder they switched him from whole blood to plasma: his platelet count was far too low for comfort while he was in surgery. However, now that he was conscious and coherent, he would need them to take him completely off of the drip. Satisfied, he pushed his call button and placed his chart back where it belonged.

It wasn't long thereafter when Sherlock was awoken to raised voices. It was peculiar because he was fairly sure that one of the voices was John's. He blinked his eyes into focus before rolling them affectionately. Yes, there was John, sitting up and glaring at a young man in scrubs and a lab coat as the youth was trying to explain John's lack of discharge papers.

"I'm sorry, Doctor Watson, but we want to keep you here another couple of days for observation."

"You've been saying that for the past five minutes. Stop giving me the ring-around and give me my discharge papers! I'm quite capable of home-care and aware of when I should be in for a recheck."

Sherlock would have left if it wasn't for the fact that the, quite obvious, intern looked as if he was going to wet himself. However, it didn't stop him from smirking widely as he spoke. "Now now, John, let the poor intern do his job. By the way, no, you're not going to pass your Board Examinations. I would suggest you forget about sleeping with your Professor and actually focus on your studies."

The intern's jaw dropped before he stuttered out something incomprehensible and hurried out of the room. He looked over and John, who was staring at him with a look of pure admiration. "I love you."

Sherlock grinned. "Looks like what they say is true. Doctors do make horrible patients."

"They gave me an intern. Honestly!"

"I also noticed," Sherlock nodded at one of the machines at John's bedside before going over to inspect it, "that you turned off your morphine drip."

"I don't need it. It's unnecessary and I hate the way that those kinds of drugs make me feel. A little pain won't kill me." John waved him off.

"Have they given you anything else?"

John sighed and nodded. "Twelve-hundred milligrams of Acetenol. I don't want anything stronger than that."

"So you yell at the interns instead. Not the best way to take out your pain and frustration." He scoffed.

"They should have just let me be." John's face flushed slightly.

"They're doing their job, John, just like you do. Act like an adult."

"I'm a doctor. I know what I'm talking about."

"You're not a doctor right now, you're a patient."

John scowled. "I'm a doctor first. I don't even need to be here right now. I'm stitched up and ready to go home."

Sherlock stood to walk over to John's bed and picked up his chart to read through it quickly. "Not when you're acting irrationally. You're staying here until they clear you, so enough arguing. Now, get some sleep. You'll need all of the rest you can get."

"Sherlock, I **just** woke up. I'm not tired." John denied despite the jaw-cracking yawn that escaped his lips.

The detective sat back down in his chair and just smirked. "Maybe not, but the morphine dose that I just administered should make you more than a bit drowsy."

John would have screamed and shouted his displeasure but he was already asleep. When he woke up the next morning, it was to the sight of Sherlock tapping away on John's laptop. He bristled in annoyance but brush it off; there wasn't anything he could do about it anyway. Sighing, he sat up and glanced at the clock indicating mid-morning. After taking care of his morning routine, he took another look at his chart and sighed again.

"You're not going home until a doctor, not you, comes in to check on you. Luckily, someone owed Mycroft a favor, otherwise you wouldn't be leaving for another two or three days." Sherlock's rumbling voice cut through the air. Mind you, his typing never paused it's rapid consistency. "You're welcome."

John rolled his eyes. "I should have been home last night."

"John," Sherlock sighed and closed the laptop, "you're much safer here compared to anywhere else you could be. Here I can see and hear everything. Were you to go home to Baker Street, you would insist on going to work or meander around the flat where we would be separated."

"What if I took a week off of work?"

"I already called Mary from your mobile. You're already on sick leave for the time being."

John balked. "Sherlock! I'm quite capable of calling myself out of work! Give me my phone."

"You were asleep so, no, you were not capable." Sherlock raised his eyebrow.

Rolling his eyes, John got out of bed and grabbed the knapsack by Sherlock's feet and headed into the bathroom to change. He wanted to be ready to go when the nurse came with his discharge papers. The hospital gown, if you could call it that, dropped to his feet and he rummaged in the bag for his clean clothes. He smiled when he spotted his favorite shirt and jumper. Well, Sherlock's favorite shirt and jumper. The man constantly commented on his state of dress but John noticed that he always looked at him for a few seconds longer than normal when he wore this specific outfit. John had no issues changing into his pants, trousers, and button-down shirt but when it came to his jumper, the stitches in his side tugged painfully and he hissed out his discomfort. His eyes fell to the door as it opened and Sherlock stepped in.

"Really, John, you could have just asked for my help."

"Just help me, will you?"

Almost as if he was dressing a doll, Sherlock took great care in helping John slide his arms through his shirt-sleeves and pulling the jumper down to lay over his stomach. When they emerged, John was almost dancing with glee when he saw his attending nurse stand at the foot of his bed with a clipboard holding his discharge papers. He smiled the entire time as he filled out the forms, even signing with one hand when he insisted the nurse remove his IV catheter as he wrote.

From the time he left his hospital room to the time they arrived to Baker Street, Sherlock hadn't said a word. It wasn't unusual, except for the fact that John kept catching him staring at him out of the corner of his eye. After they paid their cab fare, the duo made their way up the stairs after briefly checking in with Mrs. Hudson and stepped into their flat. John shrugged off his jacket and went into the kitchen to make tea; hospital food and beverages were never appetizing in the slightest. Before he could actually pour his tea into his mug, he felt a hand grasp his wrist on his good side and tug him around and into an almost bone-crushing hug. Instinctively, his arms came to rest on narrow hips, his shock preventing him from fully returning the embrace.

"Sherlock?"

Said man grunted but said nothing, only tightening his hold further. John would have been in a panic if he didn't know his consulting detective better. He sighed and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist and rested his head on a bony collar. "I'm all right..."

"Obviously." Sherlock retorted but his hold remained the same.

John squirmed a bit, pulling back to look into blue steel orbs. He brought up a hand to stroke sharp cheekbones. "I'm all right. **We'll** be all right."

Sherlock nodded, resting his forehead against John's. The shorter gave himself a small boost to lock his lips with the man before him. The kiss was returned softly, a gentle shift in pressure, before Sherlock pulled away and stared into his eyes again. Pain, concern, worry, sadness, adoration, affection. John could read everything in that solitary glance. The moment was short-lived as the taller pulled away and stepped around him to finish pouring tea. "Right, you didn't eat breakfast. Sit down and I'll heat up lunch."

John could have sworn that he saw Sherlock's eyes mist over but he chose to ignore it. The detective would immediately close himself off if he thought he was being weak. So, John smiled and sat down in the living room, ignoring the urge to console the man he loves. Ten minutes after his plate of food was empty and taken away, the good doctor tried not to frown. Sherlock was still in the kitchen puttering around making all sorts of raucous noises. However, it sounded methodical and not the usual obnoxiousness that he was used to. When Sherlock reappeared it was to climb onto the desk and look into the bookcase. It was then that John realized what his best friend was doing. He'd seen this activity before, numerous times, in fact.

He was searching for bugs.

John sighed after the second time Sherlock had slipped on something, too focussed on his quarry. "Please be careful, Sherlock."

"I'm fine." Sherlock jumped down from his perch and moved in front of the television.

"Do you want help?" John offered.

"No, I'm fine."

It was when the telly was in the process of being dismantled did John speak up again. "If you break it, you're buying a new one."

He was ignored.

"I think we should call Mycroft."

That stopped Sherlock in his tracks. He scowled at John. "Why do you feel the need to phone Mycroft?"

"He's the one who originally got you into this mess. It's high time he did something to rectify it." When the doctor didn't get an answer, he pulled out his phone.

Sherlock sighed. "He hasn't apologized and he won't. Why should there be any kind of communication?" Standing up straight, the detective brought his fingers to his lips in thought.

"Because the very least he can do is protect his younger brother. This is all his fault, Sherlock. He also has the proper equipment to sweep the flat with."

The younger of the two began pacing. "He doesn't know Moriarty's mind as well as I do."

"No, but he does know how to find hidden cameras. He hides enough of them himself."

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock suddenly shouted.

John startled at his outburst. They both listened for a few moments but received no reply. Sherlock frowned. "She should be taking her tea and evening soother before bed right about now. No deviation from her routine." He looked to John, eyes narrowing.

John was already up and moving to his room to retrieve his Sig Sauer by the time Sherlock finished his thought. By the time he arrived back downstairs, Sherlock was off the phone with Lestrade and waiting for John to return before moving. They crept down the stairs to Mrs. Hudson's flat quickly and quietly, alert and listening for anything abnormal coming from the other side of her door. John switched his gun off of safety and nodded, quickly raising his gun hand as he entered the room.

There was a solitary light turned on in the flat, coming from Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. The television was off and to the average person, one would assume that no one was home. However, Sherlock knew better. He knew Mrs. Hudson better than that. The two men split up to quickly search for anything amiss. John took to the kitchen while Sherlock made way into the bedroom. The kitchen held no life other than a cooling kettle and he was about to declare that the flat was empty until he heard Sherlock call to him. John hurried down the hall and into Mrs. Hudson's bedroom before dropping to the floor beside the body on the floor. His hands flew to the elderly woman's neck and wrist, sighing in relief when he felt a faint but strong flutter.

While John continued to check their landlady's vitals, Sherlock was examining the entire flat. When he found nothing, he walked back into the room, he caught a flash of off-white by Mrs. Hudson's mouth. He stooped down to pick up the note and opened it.

_"Having fun yet, Sherly?"_

"She needs an ambulance. Next will be Lestrade. Phone our favorite DI and have him order one over to meet us here." Sherlock glanced as the doctor immediately pulled out his mobile and called their friend.

John stood. "Greg's almost here with a detail and the paramedics are en route."

While they waited, both of them kept trying to get Mrs. Hudson to respond to them. Sherlock especially, but he kept asking her to recall details of her assailant. Getting frustrated, he stood and sat down in one of her chairs with a huff. John, after asking her several simple questions, was satisfied and took one of her hands in his. "Mild concussion after she was hit on the head and took a nasty tumble. I'll keep her awake until the medics get here."

Their wait was short-lived as not five minutes later, flashing lights bathed the flat in red and blue in a cycle. After Mrs. Hudson's sister was called to inform her of where her sister would be staying for the time being, the boys headed back into their flat. John went to sit in his chair to regain his bearings but Sherlock became a flurry of movement. He ran in and out of his room and the kitchen, the sound of glass clinking and footsteps pounding occupying the flat in his frenzy. As John settled in, he heard his love run down the stairs before he heard shouting.

"Everybody shut up! Anderson, you might as well leave, seeing as you're completely useless. No? Fine. **LESTRADE! MAKE ANDERSON GO AWAY!**"

If John wasn't so tired, he would have fallen over laughing.

The next afternoon, John returned from visiting Mrs. Hudson at the hospital and gave a summary of her condition to the curly-haired lump on the sofa. "They're going to run a few more tests but, honestly, they can only do so much. Blunt force trauma to the back of her head. Concussion was confirmed. They couldn't tell what kind of object and we'll have no way of knowing since there wasn't anything left behind. She'll be fine in a couple of days."

Sherlock grunted. John responded with a sigh. "What's the matter wit you, then?"

Blue steel eyes narrowed and his lips curved downward. John would love to tell him he looked adorable when he pouted but then Sherlock would never pout again. "There's nothing to go on. The hair was synthetic, commonly bought at any beauty supply shop, and the saliva I found was Mrs. Hudson's. We're sitting ducks as far as I'm concerned."

"Sitting ducks?"

"This is Moriarty's doing."

John's lips thinned. "Do you think we need to hide for the time being? A safe house?"

"We could try, but I doubt it would do us any good. He's trying to make a point; he can get to anyone without being caught and this is all on his terms."

John nodded. "But that still makes Baker Street a liability. He was able to get inside 221C without anyone knowing years ago."

After a paused, Sherlock glanced at him. "Where was your flat before you moved into Baker Street?"

John grimaced. "Not in the best part of London. Don't you think Moriarty thought of that already?"

"He's expecting something. We have to stay close and stay together."

"Why not just stay with Mycroft?"

Sherlock sighed. "It's plausible. And what is with your obsession with my brother, anyway? That's the third time this week you've mentioned going to him for help. Is that really what you want? To reside in the same house as the man who practically sentenced me to death by the hand of a madman?"

"Of course not. I would hate it, but it would mean that you would be safe."

Long, elegant fingers waved him off. "My safety is the last thing on my mind."

"That may be," John frowned, "but it's my priority."

"Fine, but **you** are phoning Mycroft. I'll collect our laptops, mobile chargers, clothes, and your gun." Sherlock then stomped off to gather their things.

Twenty minutes later, he set down two duffle bags on the kitchen table before going to locate John. The ex-captain hadn't bothered to keep his voice down but Sherlock could hear him in the closed living room, practically shouting into the phone receiver.

"You **owe** us, Mycroft. You owe **him**! The very least you can do for your brother is to help him from getting **killed**. I don't care what your differences are, do the right thing and be done with it... Fine, we'll be ready." He heard John's angry footsteps heading to the kitchen. Sherlock didn't bother trying to hide the fact he was eavesdropping. John practically shouted their plans to the entire world.

The two almost collided when John entered the room. "Well, now that everyone and their uncle heard that..."

John ignored him and grabbed his knapsack from the table and headed downstairs. Sherlock huffed and followed with his own bag. "John, come back."

He heard John throw his back to sit at the front door, carelessly kicking it aside even further. The taller grabbed the older man's uninjured arm firmly. "John."

John stopped, agitated. "What, Sherlock?"

Sherlock leaned in close to his ear and whispered. "I understand your agitation towards my brother, believe me. However, you didn't bother to keeping your voice down on the off chance that someone who works for Moriarty could be listening in. Just because I didn't find any bugs, doesn't mean there aren't any in the flat. Think, John, if everyone heard you, is it really wise to go to Mycroft's?"

John sighed, reaching for the door and stepping outside, shouldering his knapsack as a sleek black car pulled to the curb. "Just get in the car. We'll figure it out."

Frowning, Sherlock picked up his bag and followed. This wasn't typical "John" behavior. To the untrained eye, he was just being rude and tetchy. It's why Sherlock had to keep his expression cool and collected despite the fact that he was cheering on the inside. His blogger was so smart, sometimes. He deserved a kiss for being so clever.

When he got in the back of the car with John, he grinned at him and pulled out his phone to type a message, but not send it. He presented his phone to John, almost throwing it at him.

_Bravo, my dear blogger. If you ever lose your license to practice medicine, you could always be an actor. -SH_

John looked at the driver, making sure he wasn't looking, before grinning and pulling out his own phone.

_If anyone was listening in, I wanted to make it convincing. I didn't forget about the flat being bugged so I made sure to make our plans known to anyone that could be observing. It was getting you and Mycroft to agree that was the tricky part. So glad to know I can surprise, even you. -JW_

Sherlock pressed a quick but firm kiss to John's lips before typing a quick reply.

_Pleasantly so...-SH_


	6. Chapter 6

Several hours later, using the cover of darkness, John found himself staring at the back of Sherlock's coat as they weaved in and out of London's alleyways. Turn after turn, John felt himself growing more and more lost to the point where he couldn't tell you which way pointed north. However, he knew Sherlock's knowledge of London was profound and where Sherlock went, he would follow. About ninety minutes into their walk from Mycroft's home, Sherlock came to a sudden halt. If John wasn't paying attention, he would have knocked both of them over. After he gathered his bearings, he went to look up at his companion to snap at him but John's face was suddenly full of wool. His breath was knocked out of him and had he not known whom it was that was almost suffocating him, he would've started kicking. When he calmed down, he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's narrow hips.

"Sherlock?"

He received a grunt in return.

"Sherlock..." John sighed. He wanted to pull away too look at his lover but he suddenly thought better. Smiling, he buried his face further into the itchy coat.

"I'm fine, Sherlock."

"Of course you are. Why wouldn't you be?" Sherlock scoffed but his hold didn't relent.

John shook his head. "Sherlock...I'm fine...**We** will be fine..."

Sherlock remained quiet for a moment before he loosened his grip. He stared down at John for a moment before grazing a gently, chaste kiss across his lips. "I know."

John swallowed as soft lips left his. "Is it wrong that I'm terrified? Me, a trained soldier."

"No," Sherlock mumbled, "it's not. I'd be concerned if you weren't, even just a bit. Come, we're a block over from Molly's."

The dynamic duo made the rest of their walk to Molly's flat with little to no fuss. They settled in and made a cuppa for themselves but the tension in the room was thick and almost suffocating. John, in an attempt to make conversation, cleared his throat and said, "Molly's going to be home late. She's got several autopsies to perform and she's behind on all of her paperwork."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Did she tell you that?"

"When she texted me earlier about where her hidden key was."

"Hidden," Sherlock scoffed, "would indicate that it wouldn't be easily found."

John rolled his eyes. "It would be to anyone who isn't you, Sherlock."

"Obviously."

Sighing, John changed the subject. "There's a single twin bed in the guest room. I'll stay out here for the first shift and I'll come wake you in a couple of hours."

"No, you're staying close so I can keep an eye on you. Besides, you know I don't sleep on a mere whim."

"We don't have to stay in the same room and you really need to sleep, Sherlock." John shot back with a frown. Why did Sherlock have to be so **difficult**?

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "My body and mind require less sleep than the average human, John. I will sleep, eventually. Why don't you take a shower and I'll order the take out."

"...**You're** going to order the take-away...?"

"Yes, is that so strange?"

"Yes, for you it is."

"No need to be testy, John."

John stood with a shake of his head. "Fine, whatever. I'm going to take a shower. You know what I like."

"You know that I do."

John stopped to look at his companion and balked. Sherlock was...**leering** at him. Leering! Sherlock doesn't throw saucy looks at anyone! He cleared his throat, feeling heat creep into his cheeks. "I'm off, then."

Sherlock grinned to himself as soon as John left the room. It was amusing to get such rises out of his doctor. What could he do to make him blush? Fidget? Loosen his shirt collar as he felt warmer? He thoroughly enjoyed categorizing each and every one of these new developments as his and John's relationship progressed. Oh yes, he felt himself growing closer and closer to taking that next step. The big step. The "more human contact than he'll ever be used to" step.

With sudden inspiration, he stood and walked through the living room and burst through the unlock door of the loo. John wouldn't lock the door in a time like this, just in case they had an intruder. He completely ignored the fact that John had just taken his shirt off, his trousers hanging low on his hips without the aid of his belt. He only glanced briefly, knowing John wouldn't mind his presence but would be unsure of his intentions, before sitting down on the toilet. "Should we order for Molly?

John paused but continued undressing. He was comfortable enough with himself and he knew Sherlock had seen enough naked, dead, bodies to be unaffected to a degree. "You said she wouldn't be back til after midnight. You can text her and ask if you'd like. I'm surprised you thought of it."

Sherlock merely shrugged and pulled out his phone to text the Medical Examiner while John stepped into the shower. After getting a vague response from her, he looked through the shower doors where he knew John's head and eyes would be through the fogged, distorted glass. "Did she mention why she would be late?"

"She said she'd had an overflow. Nasty car accident and she's stuck without an assistant. Six autopsies, I think." John lathered his hair with shampoo and sighed under the hot water.

Sherlock grunted and stood, leaving John to finish his shower. When he left, however, John grinned at the fact that he left the door wide open. Cheeky bastard. He took his time in his routine, knowing that even though they still had amenities at their disposal, that could easily be taken away at the drop of a hat. When he finished, he toweled off and dressed before making an appearance in the living room where he knew his detective would be.

The tellie was on but the volume was lowered to the point where John questioned if it was muted or not. That was when he realized that Sherlock was thinking. When he approached him, though, he seemed...off. When Sherlock went to his "Mind Palace", he usually took on a faraway look or even had his eyes closed but now...now he looked as if he was thinking too much. That he was getting, dare he say it, emotional? John frowned. "I thought you were ordering take-away."

Sherlock seemed to snap out of his reverie with a jolt. He didn't look at John and rubbed his eyes, instead. "Hm? You never said what you wanted."

That was when he took on a scowl. "You know what I like, Sherlock. I never have to tell you what I want, you usually know exactly what I want. Are you all right? You seem out of sorts."

"I'm fine." An elegant hand held out a phone to John. "The number for the nearest Italian bistro is up. You call."

John stared at Sherlock as he took the phone but turned and walked a few paces as he placed their order. When he finished and turned back around Sherlock's face was in his hands, sitting very still. Concerned, John stepped over to him to kneel before him. "Sherlock?"

"Yes John?" He hadn't moved.

John hesitated for a brief moment but eventually rested his hands on strong knees. He was unsure of what to say and apparently took too long to think of something as he heard Sherlock speaking before he could.

"Stop staring and talk, John. It's quite irritating."

Sandy blond hair shook in disbelief. John stood and with a frustrated sigh. "Forget it. I'm going to go get our take-away." He strode over to the door to grab his jacket and make sure he had his wallet.

Sherlock jerked to a stand. "John, you can't go out alone!"

"I'll be fine!" And with that the door slammed behind him,

John walked down the street completely frustrated and irritated. Honestly! Was it so wrong for him to express his concern to Sherlock? Yes, he knew that Sherlock could be a prat and anything to do with anything other than basic emotion wasn't exactly his strong point. But, really! John knew he had to be more understanding towards Sherlock's lack of social graces but for a moment he thought that he was the exception. Wasn't he?

"Oh, who am I kidding?" He kicked a stray rock like it had offended him. Gritting his teeth he checked his phone for the directions to the restaurant.

Why would a simpleton like John Watson be an exception for the exceptional Sherlock Holmes? Sure, he was a fine marksman. A more than fair surgeon on a good day. Well...now more of a consultant, no thanks to his injured shoulder. Blasted thing! He also knew he was a more than decent doctor when it came down to it. But other than that? He was an average-looking man with an average intelligence when it came to anything outside of the human box. He sighed.

He checked his phone once more before turning the corner. That was when he heard a familiar voice call out to him.

"John!"

Oh for the love of all things holy...

John kept walking, ignoring the running footsteps behind him. So **now** Sherlock wanted to talk?! Absolutely not! John quickened his pace slightly. He knew it was childish but at the moment he didn't care. Sherlock was being a right prat!

He ignored the man when he caught up to him at a crosswalk as he waited for the go-ahead. "John?"

Git.

"John, what are you not saying?"

Prick. "Nothing, Sherlock." He began walking again.

"You're lying to me. Why are you lying?" Sherlock grabbed his arm and stopped him mid-stride. "John, you've never had an issue expressing your agitation with me before. Why now?"

John sighed. "Fine, but I refuse to argue with you in public."

They continued walking again for another half mile or so until they came to the restaurant. John left Sherlock outside to pace while he waited for their order. He almost smiled fondly as he watched the tall man walk back and force in front of the store window. It would have been cute if he wasn't so annoyed. Soon, he paid, grabbed their bags, and walked back outside. He didn't stop and he didn't have to look behind him to know his companion was following closely in thought.

He barely took his coat off when Sherlock attempting to gain his attention again. "John..."

John hung his coat and took the bags to the kitchen table to sort their food.

"John...speak."

He sat down and began to eat, still ignoring the petulant man standing in the doorway.

"John."

If the doctor didn't know any better, he would have missed the slight purse of his lovers lips forming a pout. He only looked up from his food with a raised eyebrow. There was a beat before Sherlock moved across the room to sit down in front of him. Oh yes, Sherlock was getting anxious by his silence. Good to know.

Sherlock's tone was soft when he spoke. Not apologetic by any means. No, Sherlock hardly ever thought he was wrong. But John knew that the dark-haired man was at least a little bit contrite. "Talk, John?"

He supposed he could take pity on him. If there was one thing that he knew Sherlock hated, it was not knowing. He swallowed and licked his lips, gently putting his cutlery down.

"You need to be more patient with me, Sherlock. Especially, when it comes to reading your moods."

"I don't do 'moods'," Sherlock sneered, "John. Not really my area, you know that. Yes, I've gotten...better at it all thanks to you."

John sighed. "Earlier, I didn't know what to do or what to say. I just needed to do **something**. And when I got frustrated because I felt useless I decided to leave you to your own devices so you could sort yourself out."

"I see."

"I hate feeling useless." He pushed his food away, no longer hungry.

Feeling as if he was in safe territory again, Sherlock stood and changed his seat so he was sitting next to John. "Then figure out what to do. You've been doing this longer than anyone in existence."

"Doing what?" John asked with a frown.

Sherlock waved his hand in his own general direction. "Dealing with me."

Chuckling, he responded. "I'm here, aren't I?"

Dark curls tilted towards the side for a moment before Sherlock pushed John's food towards him again wordlessly.

"I'm not hungry." John said with a shake of his head.

Sherlock scraped his chair closer to him. "Because of me? That's not a healthy habit."

"Hello, Pot! My name is Kettle. You're black."

Steely eyes just stared.

John sighed. "I'll eat the rest later. I'm fine."

Still stared.

"I'm the one who is supposed to get **you** to eat. And staring at me isn't going to get the job done." John glared.

More staring.

"Fine! But only if you eat too."

Sherlock grunted but picked up a fork and stabbed at his food before bringing it up to his mouth and began eating. "Better?"

John grinned and made a show of picking up his food and eating. The man next to him rolled his eyes and ate slowly. When John finished, he tossed his empty container in the bin and took the time to watch Sherlock eat. The long jawline moved up and down slowly, muscles contracting and retracting, a tongue peeking out every so often to lap up a stray blot of sauce. John almost lost himself in watching him until he heard Sherlock clear his throat. John merely grinned and stood to put Molly's share in her ice box. Sherlock spoke up as he stood to bin the rest of his food. "You're much more...you today."

John stopped. "Am I?"

"Yes. You're worried about me."

"I'm always worried about you." John crossed his arms. "You tend to get yourself into dangerous situations."

They returned to the living room. John sat while Sherlock paced.

"I'm capable." Sherlock insisted.

"You're very capable. That doesn't mean you're infallible or invincible."

"I know."

John watched him closely. "What are you thinking?"

"You worrying. I'm trying to understand why you do it."

"Because I love you."

Sherlock stopped in his tracks. John said it was such...simplicity. As if it were the most finite answer one man could give. It was almost...mind-blowing...

John looked him square in the eye. "I had to learn to survive without you after 'the fall', Sherlock. I worry because I want to look out for you, I want to see you healthy, and I want to see you **breathing**. I don't want to go through that again. Literally."

Sherlock's heart was beating fiercely in his chest. When he had 'come back' after all that time and had first shown himself to John, they hadn't talked about it much. It surprised him, honestly. Yes, John had thrown a tantrum, cried, hit him (which hurt like the dickens), patched him up, stopped speaking to him for a weak, and then moved on as if nothing had ever happened. At first, Sherlock thought it a blessing that John hadn't wanted to sit down and talked about his feelings on the matter. Really, he was back, how did it matter? But now he knew how John felt about him. He knew John loved him. Hearing the heartbreak in his love's voice...it was maddening.

"There's no 'if I die' anymore, Sherlock. I won't exist in this world without you."

Sherlock walked over to him and stood right in front of his blogger, his shins nearly touching John's knees. "I understand."

Rough hands reached up to rest on Sherlock's hips. Fingers squeezed slightly, not enough to hurt, but just hard enough to reassure him that they were both there. "John..."

"I can't even think about it. I get nightmares, seeing it over and over and over again. Watching you jump. Seeing your broken body on the sidewalk..." John felt his eyes misting. He rubbed at his eyes furiously.

Sherlock knelt down so he was eye to eye with him before pulling the older man into an embrace. John took advantage and buried his face into a finely tailored neck. "This is how I know I'm not dreaming."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "How?"

"I can feel you." John brought a hand to touch Sherlock's arm.

Curls bounced as Sherlock nodded. "What else?"

He felt John inhale deeply before he spoke. "I can smell you. You smell like chemicals and your cologne that probably costs more than my annual salary." That made Sherlock smirk and chuckle.

"I can change that if it bothers you."

The growl that form in John's throat made Sherlock shiver slightly. God that was sexy.

"Don't you dare change a thing! It's you and that's how you'll stay."

Sherlock liked this. It was usually he that observed other people but now, John was using his senses and forming conjecture on his own. Oh John. **His** John. "What else do you observe?"

"Your taste." John tilted his head towards Sherlock's neck and kissed it, swiping his tongue across alabaster skin. "Right now you taste of sweat and your soap. It appeals to all of the taste sensories. You're salty yet sweet from your sweat, but tart because you showered with your brand of soap this morning."

Sherlock licked his lips when he felt John's tongue swipe over his jugular. It was thrilling. He nodded and continued to listen.

"And then I see you." John pulled back and reached up to finger a curly lock of hair. "Have I ever told you how much I love your hair? I bet no one could ever replicate how it looks right now; curly and wind-swept, yet debonair. So full of contradictions, like you. And your eyes. They're such a unique shade of stormy blue that reminds me of a clear London sky in the spring."

Pale skin began to pinken from a blush. He never knew that John thought of him that way. He knew he was attractive by society's standards but John...John was was being purely poetic. He never liked poetry but he could listen to it if it came from John.

"And your lips." John paused briefly to press a chaste kiss to them. "They're full and lush and soft and if I could, I'd kiss them all day long. I never want to kiss any other lips ever again."

Sherlock was momentarily speechless until John went on. "There's no other place I'd rather be right now than with you."

That was when Sherlock agreed. "I concur. Everyone else is too stupid."

John's eyes widened in shock briefly before he burst into laughter. When he calmed down, he leaned in to kiss Sherlock's lips again. He hummed happily when he felt his kneeling lover respond instantly. John tilted his head at a better angle to deepen the kiss as he wrapped his arms around lithe shoulders and tangling his hands in thick curls. He felt Sherlock shift closer and he swiped his tongue across the lips he described not moments before. Tentatively, he slipped his tongue inside to flick against Sherlock's.

The stimulation too much, the younger of the two broke away, gasping for breath. "Air..."

John nodded and rested his forehead against Sherlock's. When said man regained most of his breath, he asked. "How do you do that?"

"Do what?" John frowned.

"Make me forget how to breathe?"

John blushed heavily and looked away. He loosened his grip and cleared his throat, unsure of how to answer the question. Sherlock broke the silence first. "Is that really how you see me?"

"Mhm. And that's just your physical appearance."

Sherlock smirked. "Oh? There's more?"

"Your mind." John nodded. "It's vast and full of knowledge. Your intellect is greater than those who work at NASA and who have won the Nobel Peace Prize. It's beautiful."

There was that elegant wave again. "The Nobel is trivial."

"You would say that about the most prestigious award that one could ever receive in their life time." He scoffed.

Sherlock smirked. "Knew you enjoyed my intellect." He received a mock glare for his efforts.

"Don't let it get to your head. Your ego is just as big as your intellect.."

"Now now, John. Size isn't everything."

John grinned as his eyes narrowed. "It's how you use it. Believe me, I know."

"Oh really? That's what you dreamt about in my bed, then? My intellect."

The good doctor threw his head back and laughed. Sometimes he really enjoyed his banter with Sherlock. Especially, since he wasn't insulting him. "Oh yes, and we all know how well you use it."

"Not all, but you do. I had to clean my pillow after you had your way with it." Sherlock smirked as John blushed heavily and looked away, remembering the night he'd had an erotic dream about him.

Oh no... Sherlock wasn't having any of that. He turned John's head to look into his eyes, completely ignoring the redness spreading across his doctor's cheeks. "What did you dream about, John?"

"Sh-Sherlock...that's-"

"That's what? Personal? Crossing the line? Too much information?" Sherlock leaned in close as John cleared his throat again. Ah...he was nervous.

"Embarrassing was the word I was looking for."

"Thoughts of shagging your best mate? Why? How so?"

"They've never been that...vivid. Intense."

Sherlock scowled. "And the issue is what? You're making this more complicated than it is, John."

"I really don't talked about these things. Openly."

From his kneeling position, Sherlock abruptly stood. "I need a shower. Talk with me while I bathe?"

John blinked as he watched the svelte body of Sherlock Holmes disappear into the loo. He quickly stood and followed, grinning as he went. "Can't promise I won't look."

"It won't bother me, I have nothing to hide. Not to mention, I'm sure that you've seen far worse than the naked male anatomy." Long fingers swiftly unbuttoned his shirt, dropping it to the floor as he untucked the tails from his trousers. He looked up to see John staring. Raising an eyebrow, he waiting for John's eyes to meet his. "What? You've already seen me naked at Buckingham Palace."

John shook his head. "It's different."

Sherlock made a face. "How?" He unbuckled his belt and unzipped and unbuttoned his trousers, letting those fall as well."

"This is just you and me. In the loo. Not with your brother and his colleague. Not to mention you're about to be dripping wet with water and soap. Very different from Buckingham Palace."

Sherlock merely smirked and dropped his pants as well. John couldn't help but stare as the pale body turned and stepped into the shower. He would imprint Sherlock's adorable, yet sexy, buttocks in his mind until he died. No doubt about it. He wanted to bite it. John sat on the toilet as his best mate bathed.

"So, tell me about this dream you had."

John cleared his throat and sat down on the lid of the toilet. "It actually started out similar to this."

"Oh? I was in the shower?"

"Yes."

Interesting. "I see. Continue."

John rolled his eyes. "I had come in to grab my razor and you'd opened the shower curtain. You were hard. You didn't say anything but you looked at me and I just...knew..." He paused to see Sherlock reaching for something, conditioner probably as he reached up to rub his head. Seeing no telltale reaction, he continued. "You looked at me as if I could appease any hunger you might have. Like you wanted to consume me. All of me; mind, body, and soul. You told me to strip slowly, so you could take your time to observe everything."

He saw Sherlock nod. "You're creative. I'll keep this in mind, seeing as I've never analyzed this kind of situation before. What else? For once, you have more knowledge in this particular subject matter than I do."

John took a deep breath and swallowed. "You started touching yourself. Not a lot, just enough to tease. Once I finished stripping, you had me under the spray. You kissed me hard but not for long. I dropped to my knees to take you in my mouth. I couldn't wait any longer to taste you."

Sherlock's breath hitched, a lump forming in his throat. Oh god...he could feel himself getting hard. He tried to distract himself by rinsing his hair and applying body wash on his skin.

"I'd never been with a man like that before." John continued. "I mean, yeah there were quick ruts after lights out, maybe a few touches. But this was completely different. Did you know I have no gag reflex? I tried to make myself vomit once. Couldn't do it. Nearly stuck my entire fist down my throat to attempt it."

"You had this planned..." Sherlock accused, his voice cracking.

John licked his lips. "Not at all, but why look a gift horse in the mouth?"

"I...I'm not entirely sure what you're implying, John. And a gift horse?"

John grinned. "Anyway, I took you all the way down..._Sherlock_." His voice deepened to a rough growl, enjoying the shudder that ran through the body in the shower. "It was oddly erotic, you were so hot and heavy in my mouth. You moaned. You sounded magnificent."

Sherlock almost squirmed. His doctor was a naughty thing. If he didn't have any sort of control over his body, he would be raging hard. But this was purely for gathering information on sex and John's thoughts. But dear god, he wanted to let the blood flow down to his cock and wank until his legs felt like jelly. He removed himself from the shower and pretended to ignore the fact that John had a very obvious bulge in his trousers.

"You didn't let me stay on my knees too long." John continued, watching him as he walked by. "You yanked me up by my hair and kissed me quite thoroughly. After that you turned me around so that I braced myself against the wall. And then you took me. Good thing it was just a dream. Otherwise that would have hurt." John chuckled at his last statement.

"I find it interesting that you'd been with other men but never that far. And hiding your obvious erection will do...what exactly?"

Shaking his head, John sighed. "Nothing. I just didn't want to overwhelm you."

"I honestly wouldn't know what was going on besides the basic mechanics of it. For once," Sherlock smirked, "you could show off."

John ignored the fact that Sherlock was using **his** towel and replied softly. "Sherlock...I would never take advantage of you like that."

Sherlock stopped and stared at him. "You honestly think that you could?"

Standing with another sigh, John ran a hand through his hair. "Never mind, I'm going to watch telly."

"John." Sherlock grabbed John's hand and pulled him close. "Don't keep doing this."

John huffed. "You keep challenging my patience. I don't want to just... attack you and overwhelm you with sensations that you're not used to. Honestly, right now, I could ravage you right here."

"I'm not challenging. I have been trying to understand various sensations and feelings. It started that night that you spent in my bed. Try thinking a bit slower, John."

"Trust me, right now, I'd rather not think at all."

Sherlock frowned. "Why?"

"I'll only have one thing on my mind and I'll need to take a cold shower."

The man in the towel, shrugged, unwrapping himself and handing John the only protection he had against the chill of the flat. "No self-control?" He almost smirked when he heard John follow.

"When it comes to you? No. None."

"And do you see me right now, John? I'm oblivious. And in this case this isn't a grand thing. This dream you've had, how you feel. I know little to no terminology. Barely any information. Before the other day, I've never been kissed."

John frowned. "And do you want more than that? All you have to do is ask. I know you're new to this, Sherlock, but I need you to tell me what's okay and what's not. What you want. What's too much. Etcetera."

"Nothing has been too much. I learn rather instantaneously. You have to show me. When things get back on a more regular schedule I can be a little less edgy. If you want, go slow, John." Sherlock walked over to his knapsack and gathered his clothes.

Taking a chance, John walked up behind him and wrapped his arms around his narrow waist. "It'll be very...hard."

"I won't ask, then. If you want, go slow." Sherlock stopped moving. John couldn't see his eyes but he could tell something was...off. What was Sherlock up to?

John shook his head before kissing Sherlock's long neck. "I'm just saying...we should take this one day at a time. All right?"

Sherlock shuffled around in his bag. "That has been one of my plans, John." He sat down on the bed, setting down his clothes next to him. "I can see the enthusiasm. the eagerness. It's a decent coping mechanism for all that's happening right now. Remember where you are, though. We're not a Baker Street, we're at Molly's."

John nodded slowly. "I know. I'm restraining myself." He bent down to nibble at an ear. "But once this is all over, I'll have you in my bed."

That was when Sherlock's eyes took on an odd glint. Full of mischief. "Oh, I don't know, John. Doing something new, in a new place, somewhere you know you shouldn't be doing certain things. Think it through, John." Sherlock pulled John towards him to stand in between his legs with a smirk.

Growling, John climbed on top of Sherlock, straddling his hips. He ground his erection against Sherlock's unclothed semi-hard cock, groaning. "Stop contradicting yourself to confuse me!" He cut off any response the man beneath his could come up with by kissing him fiercely. John felt hands grip his hips encouragingly as he slipped his tongue inside Sherlock's mouth. They rutted against each other frantically, moaning and panting into each other hotly. Smaller hands flew into curly, dark locks, tugging slightly. John broke their kiss to nip and suck on the neck below him, groaning when Sherlock's chest rumbled in a deep moan. Fuck if that wasn't the sexiest noises he ever heard in his life. It made him shiver, goosebumps traveling up his spine and spreading throughout his limbs. He brought a hand down to caress the inside of a pale thigh but was stopped when Sherlock broke the kiss with a gasp.

"John..."

His hand still and slowly retracted. His sweaty forehead met Sherlocks apologetically, bringing up the offending hand to cup an angular cheek bone.

Sherlock licked his lips. "Thank you."

"Anything." John smiled softly, his thumb stroking over his jaw.

"Is this better than that dream?"

John grinned and kissed his other cheek. "Without question."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around broad shoulders and pulled John close to him, each other laying flush together. "I imagined you weighed slightly heavier."

John frowned. "Don't I?"

"You look to be about eighty kilograms, but right now you feel to be about sixty-five." Sherlock shook his head.

Laughing, John replied. "Are you saying I look fat?"

"Don't be an idiot," Sherlock scoffed, "I'm merely pointing out that your normal weight ratio is misleading."

"I lost a lot of weight while you were gone." John shook his head with a smile. "You should probably put some clothes on before Molly comes home. You'll give her a heart attack."

Sherlock frowned at his fully-clothed lover. "While I was gone?"

John said nothing but nodded. He sighed when lips met his own in a gentle kiss. It was chaste, just their mouths moving in sync with each other, but John felt the emotions that he knew Sherlock couldn't express in words in the action; love, remorse, affection. John pulled away with a hum. "You have no idea how gorgeous you are."

Sherlock smirked. "Not one of the adjectives I'd describe to a very nude consulting detective with a very large ego."

John chuckled. "Can't help it. You're absolutely beautiful."

"I'm a man, John." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I hope you would have noticed that very acute fact."

John, in turn, rolled his eyes as well. "Your point? And stop changing the subject. You need to get dressed."

Sighing, Sherlock sat up as John rolled off of him, leaning over to the pile of clothes he left out before and began dressing. Meanwhile, John layed on his back, trying to picture his sister in a bikini in order to deflate the grown "snake" in his pants. Sherlock grunted, "She did have to fake an autopsy with me, so Molly has seen me naked if you're that worried about it."

"Not worried, but it is a bit rude to be caught fooling around in **her** flat. A bit not good."

"You're more worried than I am."

"Of course," John sat up with a huff, "I am. I actually pay attention to social etiquette."

Their conversation was interrupted when they heard the front door open and shut, Molly calling out to the both of them. John stood, glancing over his shoulder to see Sherlock get settled into bed, and made his way to greet their friend. He returned shortly after, Molly not in any position to hold a lengthy conversation. She skipped her dinner in favor of going right to bed. When he walked back into their shared bedroom, John smiled fondly at Sherlock's half-awake form underneath the covers. He couldn't resist the urge to kiss his forehead affectionately. "I'll wake you in a couple of hours."

"What will you do while I'm sleeping?" Sherlock yawned.

"Well," John thought, "can't watch telly, too suspicious. I suppose I'll be underneath a blanket with my mobile."

Sherlock shifted deeper under the blankets. "I remembered to grab my laptop, it's in my bag. You can sit next to me while you do whatever it is that you do besides blog and watch porn."

Rolling his eyes, John grabbed his laptop and turned off the light, climbed into bed, and sat against the headboard as his computer whirred to life. He didn't bother wishing Sherlock a good night. He was already asleep.

Several hours later, John shook Sherlock awake. Stormy blue eyes cracked open blearily. He yawned as he listened to John's update.

"Mycroft's e-mailed me. Polite way of telling me that he's angry, it looks like. Passive aggressive bastard." John muttered.

Sherlock merely waved his hand dismissively.

"He wants you to text him tomorrow." John commented and then grinned. "I told him, politely, to stuff it."

The two grinned at each other and burst into a fit of quiet giggles. Sherlock spoke first when they sobered. "If he wants to talk to me that badly, he can text me."

"You know how he is."

Sherlock whined. "I don't want to."

John threw him a warning look. "Sherlock..."

"John..." Sherlock crossed his arms defiantly. John tried to glare but his stare was broken by a jaw-cracking yawn. He himself turned off the PC in his lap and stripped down to his pants and socks, sliding underneath the covers.

Sherlock stretched and yawned, sitting up and standing out of bed. He disappeared into the kitchen to make a cup of tea before returning, looking wide awake. Settling in, he picked up his mobile, glancing briefly at John's drowsy form. His lips twitched in a short smile and watched as his blogger drifted off to the land of "Nod". When he was satisfied that John was completely asleep, his face formed into a scowl as he opened his texts on his phone and typed a message quickly to his brother.

_What makes you so deserving to receive an "update", Myrcoft? -SH_

He hit send and crossed his arms. His reply came a few moments later.

_One would think, with all of the chaos, that you would at least let me know that you're not dead. Imagine my surprise upon seeing that you and John had disappeared. -MH_

You didn't give a second thought the first time. Why start now? -SH

Of course I did. Mummy never let me forget it. No, it was the fact that you didn't show up on any of the CCTV cameras. Anywhere. -MH

I made sure of it. -SH

Which is how I knew that you and our dear doctor had "made a run for it". Ingenious, but obvious. -MH

Sherlock rolled his eyes, already tired of his conversation with his brother.

_You would think so. Not that you would pay attention to something so obvious. -SH_

Of course not. Moriarty would have picked you off. I would have let him if you made it so easy for him. You would have deserved it. -MH

He glared at his phone, his lips forming into a sneer at the audacity of the elder Holmes.

_Nice to see that you wouldn't disappoint the second time around. Waiting to lead me to my death. -SH_

Don't be so melodramatic, little brother. -MH  
Surprising that you would call me that after you sold me out to a psychopath. How does it feel to be a total bastard? -SH

Don't be obtuse. Not to mention vulgar. How crass. -MH

You would know all about that. -SH

With that I bid you adieu, little brother. At least have our good doctor send me a message once in a while to let me know that you're not dead. Mummy would be ever so sore if you died again. -MH

He didn't hear from Mycroft again.


End file.
